The Poart Mystery II: Tintin and the Lie Weaver
by Arget Vindr
Summary: Tintin has been framed for murder. Anne is still in a coma and George runs freely in the streets - searching for vengeance after being humiliated and planning his next deadly move. With everything against her, will Anne be able to pull through? After he risked his life for her, will she be willing to return the favour?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Tintin entered the hospital ward alone.

He held in one hand a bouquet of flowers; they were a beautiful mixture of autumn colours stretching from yellow to red. The fragrance of the tulips was something she would like, crisp and sweet – at least he thought she would like it. He stood there for a moment; watching as he often did at her sleeping body which breathed only slightly. He placed the flowers in the glass vase he had filled before with a different bouquet a week before, the one before that and the one before that.

It had been three months since Iceland. Three months in a coma that the doctors insisted wouldn't take as long. Yet here she lay, inert and asleep – peaceful in some dreamland. Tintin was glad for it. Because she would be ashamed of him if she ever woke; he could've stopped this all from happening. Yet he did not.

Tintin sat down next to the hospital bed, she lay facing the ceiling and her arms down her sides. One was bandaged and he didn't want to remember how or what was on her arm – the word that had been printed on his own guilt about the entire situation. He wished to forget it all.

"I've tried again," He told her, knowing that the woman he knew couldn't hear him. Aware of the guilt he held heavy in his heart. "I wanted to write everything that happened to you, but I don't know how… It's been all weird – I can't think about it because then I start thinking of what happened at the Golden River and then… Jesus, why didn't I do anything? I was standing right there; right in front of you and I could see it. I knew what was going to happen, I could see what was going to happen. Am I a coward?"

She did not answer – he didn't need one to know the truth. He hung his head in shame, running one of his hands through his hair. He was exasperated of trying to think of what he could've done.

"I have nightmares about what happened that day." He whispered. "Every time I will it to end differently nothing ever changes. I just… I could've done so much more and I just sat there. Sat there while you were…" he glanced to her bandaged upper arm. He knew what was scrawled there and hated what she was branded as. His eyes darkened. "I have to find him. I will find him, Anne, no matter what it takes. He will pay for what he did to you.

"Sometimes I wish you could just wake up and tell me what he looks like. That would be nice, a start, at least. Maybe I would have more than just Snowy for company – nothing wrong with him, obviously, I just would like someone to talk back sometimes. You know what I mean?"

She did nothing. Anne remained on the bed and had not moved.

Tintin looked to his watch, he cursed himself. "Sorry, Anne, I'll have to go. I know this week was brief but I got stuff to do – errands to run and all that. I'll come back next week, as usual."

When the boy reporter closed the door, everything was untouched. It seemed as though he was never there, only the flowers letting the world know of his very existence. The other patients seemed barely noticed and all continued their quiet deep sleep. Anne faded among them – trapped within her own mind.

Once outside, Tintin looked to hail a cab with an impatient Snowy at his heels. The weather was blackened clouds that dared to rain upon them both – and he did not wish to be caught in it. He wasn't supposed to be there, after all. The boy was supposed to be in his apartment so then he wouldn't be caught by-

"What are you doing here?" Anne's father, Mr Poart, demanded this despite what Tintin had hoped against. He was an old dying man with thin and pale skin that hung from his bones loosely. Since Anne was in a coma he had barely turned to see her – considering them both to be dead. He looked like a walking corpse – with barely days left to stand, at least. "I told you – Never come here. She doesn't need you."

"She needs someone other than you."

"You are no friend of my daughter's." Poart spat the words with little strength – but with a poisonous mouth. "She trusted you, boy. She saved your god forsaken life too many times."

"I know she did. I know that she trusted me as I trusted her; and she saved more than just my life. Because of her sacrifice she made sure that the man who hurt her would never be able to destroy the world. Thousands are safe because of her sacrifice-"

"I don't care about thousands of lives!" The old man could not shout, but the words did leave a heavy presence in the air. "I would let them all die if it was to save hers. I want her back, Mr Tintin, by any means. Even if you were to take her place I would allow it; you aren't worth a million of my daughter."

Tintin swallowed – for this was also what he sometimes wished for. Their places to be swapped and for him to take the bullet for her. He would be able to take the initial damage. He had lost pints of blood before. He had been in war and could last through more than just one gunshot; but Anne had no chance, she was just an innocent incomplete girl with little clue of war. He did not admit this to the man before him – for he knew it would do no good. Mr Poart was blinded by his love and hate; the last thing Tintin wanted was to fuel such feelings.

"I will not see you here again," Mr Poart waved a shaking, weak finger in Tintin's face. His voice also shook with increasing emotion. "I shall never see you again and neither will Anne. It's your fault – _your _fault she's in a coma. This would never have happened if you hadn't met her."

"If I didn't." Tintin watched Poart closely; his eyes locked onto the old man's unusual green. Just like Anne's beautiful irises. "She would be dead. She would've died alone and lost. But I found her and we saved each other."

"She is alone and lost, Mr Tintin." The old man said quietly. Each word with the impact of a thousand rocks upon Tintin's guilt. "She is stuck in an endless nightmare and it's your fault. It's all because of you."

Poart could not listen anymore to Tintin; he limped away on his cane aware of the pitiful eyes trained upon him. The youthful reporter did wish to help but knew that the old man would not accept it. Broken, proud and now heartless to the core; Tintin pitied such a man. He knew that Poart did not wish to be cured of whatever disease inflicted him. He wanted to die so he wouldn't have to see his daughter become consumed by the same fate.

Anne's father had given up on her but Tintin was too stubborn. There was no way that he would simply give up on her because she was unaware of him being there. No way.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

There was something very wrong about the crime scene.

When Tintin watched from the public's view even he could see something not quite right about the entire incident. An old dying man killed in broad daylight with no witnesses, no screams and no evidence. He had been stabbed methodically in exactly the right place for the internal bleeding to cause only a few moments of pain before death. Nothing was stolen – one hundred pounds remained in his wallet when he was found. There was no motive, no emotion and hardly anything apart from a murder wound to suggest homicide. So why do it? Why murder a man who was plainly seriously ill? What was to be gained? Money and power, perhaps?

Questions such as these kept going through Tintin's mind as he watched the body of Mr Poart get taken away by men in white coats. His blood only made a small puddle on the concrete, it wasn't much for a healthy boy such as Tintin but for the old man… it was enough to probably kill him in that state.

The boy didn't know what to think. Even once he returned to the sanctuary of his apartment the questions kept coming with more and more strength, he moved robotically. Each time he walked around it wasn't with him truly aware of where he was. What gain could anybody have to killing Anne's father? He had no connection with the device so it couldn't be that… so what?

His reporter instinct gave in, eventually, and he went to research what he could about the victim.

What he found answered little – Ronald Poart was the founder and CEO of an organisation mostly dealing in sugar cane production. He was a millionaire, which provided some motive, but few of his enemies willing to go so far – which suggested maybe another would want his money. But that made no sense at all since the man was retired and sold his business years before and was living happily on a thick retirement fund. He did find some pictures of Anne – they saddened him beyond anything, causing that mass of guilt to nearly suffocate him where he sat. The case hadn't made him stop thinking about her; she was always with him, stalking him with her dead, dark eyes. Vengeance was also a possibility but it was far too remote; nobody wished the man dead.

"Jealousy, Snowy?" Tintin asked – the tired dog looked up with an unsure look in his eyes. "No, I didn't think so either… I doubt people would be that jealous of him.

"So why would someone want him dead?"

The boy was confused about this case. It was obvious a murder had been committed but absolutely no witnesses or even a disturbance reported. That sparked another question – how could anybody know of such a perfect murder so soon? Would it be the murderer himself or maybe a frightened witness? In both cases it made no sense to leave a trail where something so flawless could leave the murderer walking.

Sleeping on the subject did not help as it usually did. As another day arrived in London he could only think of what would happen when Anne woke to her father's death. What would she think of this hero of misdeeds? He was a fool to believe he could help a world which was so unfair and unjust to the good.

But before he could come to any conclusions – he was visited by two old friends.

The Thomson twins were at Tintin's door in the early afternoon of that day; they were not their usual pleasant selves and did not hold a look of fair tidings in their eyes. This nerved Tintin considerably but he didn't let it show for fear of what was to be said. He allowed them to enter with Snowy padding along happily – he held a magnifying glass in his jaws.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Tintin greeted respectfully – offering the policemen a seat which they lowered themselves into consecutively.

"I'm afraid that we cannot delay, Tintin."

"We found a considerable lead." Both brothers were excited but nervous; this was unsurprising to the boy reporter. Such a case of grand proportions was an affair that rarely came to London's finest.

"But it's one we don't understand," Thompson said as calmly as he could muster. "We wondered if you might have a look at it, second opinion and all that."

"Very well, detectives," Tintin was handed a sheet of paper. He read it thoroughly, taking a minute to take in all the details. One aspect of the post-mortem caught his expert eye. "Well your killer has definitely been in the army."

"How do you know?" Thomson asked, peering over to see what he was looking at.

"You see this wound?" Tintin indicated on the report a description about the way a sharp knife was inserted within the ribs to stab the heart. It was a precise technique that he learned while at war by a very skilled friend. "Only those in the army can possibly attack so precisely between the ribs. Even then only a few can do it."

"Can you?"

Tintin was uncomfortable about what they were implying. It was no secret that the brothers always thought of his consulting (or meddling as they liked to call it) to be a sick murderer's taunting of the police. He could not refuse to show them or he would be thought of as the main suspect anyway. "I could show you."

Thompson stood leaving his cane leaning onto the chair he had sat. He had an air of upper class snobbery that sometimes was confused with foolishness. Tintin knew better of them both to realise that they were careful when they acted as such in public. Also towards possible suspects in their investigations. The twins were trained in basic arts of combat as all policemen were – but were yet to see any sort of bloodied field of battle. What Tintin had seen would chill them to the bone, but he had moved on and it had made the boy reporter years ago into a man. This technique was something Tintin was increasingly unsure of showing them but no other evidence could link him to the crime. He doubted that his friends would go so far without sufficient evidence.

He saw that Thompson took the textbook defensive stance, crouched and ready for the attack to come; and when it did Tintin made sure to be quick. But he couldn't attack while the man expected as such – the murderer would also be sure to not do this and instead waited until there was a weakness. He grabbed the outstretched arms of the man and twisted them behind his back while, with his other arm uncontrollably outstretched in an awkward reflex; Tintin stabbed him with an imaginary knife in the ribs. If he held a real one in his hand there was no doubt that it would be the end of the duo and his brother saw this clearly. There was an awkward moment where Tintin stood demonstrating what would've happened a day or so ago in the darkened alleyway, then he released Thompson.

"Your killer might've been an expert or an amateur in that move. Either way he would've subdued the man easily, Mr Poart was dying after all."

As one of them sat, rubbing his aching arm – they looked to each other. Their expressions were saddened. "Tintin, how could you know that?"

The boy cursed his stupidity; now knowing that if they weren't considering him a suspect before, he certainly was now. "I've seen him around, at the hospital. When The Incident in Iceland happened he came to see his daughter. He told me he was dying."

"You know the victim, then?"

"Why didn't you tell us?"

Tintin sighed, trying to keep calm and composed. Any sign of weakness would degenerate into something much more sinister than a friendly meeting. "Because it was irrelevant – I spoke to him once or twice, that was all."

The brothers shook their heads shamefully. They even took of their bowler hats and stroked their perfect hair in exasperation, which Tintin realised was a rarity. When they did look at him, they did not see and they spoke with a curse in their voices. "Tintin, you're a fool…"

"Somebody saw you argue with the man minutes before we think he died."

"Our superiors have told us you have to be arrested. We were your last hope, Tintin, we had to find out for sure."

"You have motive too-" Thomson retrieved a package of letters tied with a thin cord. There were ten or twenty of them in all strapped together with the same writing. "-we found these in the dustbin outside. Your landlady confirmed these were hate letters from Mr Poart to you. They are threatening and very thorough in what he would prefer."

Tintin was aware of the letters. He had hoped that they were all burned as he usually did once receiving them. It seemed that his landlady was less careful with disposing of them and was fed up with the fires he made more than once in his apartment. Tintin felt the tension mount into strained elastic – he watched the twins stand waiting for him to give himself up. They needed no words to explain this but they did wish him to leave with dignity and some pride.

"So this is it?" Tintin asked. "You're going to arrest me even though I'm innocent."

They did not answer, only averted their eyes.

"You know I'm innocent. You know it." He strode to the window casually, taking a moment to collect his thoughts and then he turned to face them. "I didn't kill that man."

Regret passed his eyes; when the policemen saw this, they had a chance to stop him – but they were too slow. He leaped onto the window sill of his apartment and climbed to the pipe that hung by the glass, his light weight allowed him to stay there for a few moments. The cars beneath him swerved past, loud horns could be heard in the distance and Tintin dared to look beneath him, the sight made him wonder if he could hold on for much longer. He heard the swearing of Thomson and Thompson through the cold wind of the morning and the thuds of them running down the three stories to catch him, when they were far away he moved.

Despite all this time – Tintin knew that they were still foolish in their assumptions of what he would and wouldn't do. He swung himself back into the apartment; rolling on the floor with a loud tumble into a wooden cabinet causing a painful crash. Glass exploded and rained down upon Tintin, cutting his forehead and cheek from the shards that began to bleed; when he stood his hands became cut as well and stung from the redness creeping down his skin. Then he shut the apartment with Snowy quick at his heels and he began to run down the stairs, with no discretion, and jumped before the window halfway down the third floor. He opened it and saw the alleyway that served as a perfect getaway – despite what he had hoped there wasn't anything to cushion his fall, only one large dumpster and there was no way that he could climb down before the Thompsons knew of his illusion. The bin was very large, big enough to just about hold him, but would it? He didn't know whether he would make it.

Tintin breathed heavily, his body refused to let him go because there was a deep uncertainty of the pain that may or may not come. He wasn't immune to the panic resting in his blood and it was only human nature for him to hesitate but there was no more time to waste on this – he had to move but he couldn't, he just couldn't do it!

Then he leaped into the air.

There was a moment when he thought he would be fine, that he would be able to get away without any injury. But reality came crashing down upon him as he saw the dustbin was inches too far and he wouldn't make it – he braced himself for the half second that he had. Then one of his legs collided with the metal edge of the dumpster, spinning onto the garbage it held, incredible agony squeezed his calf and he knew that it was broken. Tintin suppressed the yell he wanted to scream but instead punched the inside of the dumpster, causing his bleeding hand to ache from the blow.

Instinct was slow – when it at last came he felt it and he knew what needed to be done. The feeling told him to run, run fast and away to the only safety he knew; and he listened. He knew the danger and ran away from it, limping on his leg even though it caused some of the most intense pain he had ever felt. He felt tears force their way out of his eyes but he kept going because he knew he had to – because he was innocent of murder and now he had to prove it.

He had to prove it on his own.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Anne felt death close in on her. She could feel it – the clawed dark hand gripping onto her. The blackness grabbing onto her spirit and letting her free from her heavy body. She wanted to say something though; she wanted to talk to the man who had saved her from the darkness. The wonderful man who had let her free into the next life. He had a name that she knew – the only one she could ever think of._

_George…_

_She saw his face as she thought of the name – he was tall with dark hair, uncanny blue eyes and sharp features. He was so handsome and kind to her, when they had met he was also charming. He wore the same tuxedo as he did that night; he was a genius who left all others trailing behind. And he was hers as she was his._

_But then his face – his face began to melt away. It disintegrated into a mess of skin, blood and material. His eyes became a small puddle of perfect blue and his features became liquid. Then the liquid that was once him sunk into the darkness that was everywhere and nowhere. The darkness that was so haunting and now Anne was alone. He was gone – her beautiful George was dead and she didn't understand, why this had been done, who would want to hurt him?_

_When she spoke the words vibrated over and over, they reverberated back and forth in the endless space around her. Anne felt the familiar fear surround her. "George?"_

_But the thing that was once George changed again – he wore a different face, he had stolen her husband's face and now wore his true identity. He had the same eyes but they were different, they were murderers' eyes and had tasted the blood of innocents. They were filled with greed and hate – then she saw his arm. It wasn't human; it wasn't a human arm at all it was metallic, shining where there was no light. She felt the cut of his sword on her upper arm._

_She felt the tear of her own flesh against the knife, she begged it to stop, and she screamed it to stop. But nothing did let it go. She kept screaming and screaming louder and louder…_

_Wouldn't it stop? Why wouldn't it stop?_

Anne was screeching at the top of her lungs, eyes filled with tears as she remembered what happened. She began hyperventilating with her eyes struggling to open; she could see only the bright whiteness of the blinding light of day. She could feel it all happen again her arm torn to ribbons and she yelled louder as men surrounded her.

They started touching her and she screamed louder – they needed to stop! They shouldn't be touching her!

She couldn't kick her legs, what had happened to her, why were her legs not working? Her arms were dead too, why, why? She couldn't contain it and everyone with their eyes piercing her skin like spears she couldn't stand it! Why couldn't they just, just-

An injection from a needle began to calm her. They had given her something and her screams were subdued slightly. She began to whimper quietly and then her eyes began to close.

Then everything went weird… the light blurred a brightness that caused her to close her eyes completely… she didn't want to sleep – she had slept enough… but the drugs forced her… they made her go back into a state of calm…

When Anne woke a second time she was being examined closely by a doctor with a beard. She knew a man like that once – she couldn't remember his name exactly, but it was there. A man who was kind to her, who had helped Anne; why? How?

"…Miss Poart woke up screaming, sir. We were unsure of what to do with her." the male voice was distant, but she reacted to the name. Her name, she recalled. Anne Poart. "What do you suggest we do, sir?" the question was clearer and closer than the first speech, her blurred vision began to clear.

When she opened her reluctant eyes she was in a white bed in a whitewashed room; she saw the sun outside indicating early morning. She heard birds sing softly and cars loudly rush past, horns and the rumbles of engines joining the chorus. Then she saw beautiful flowers of autumn colours, they had wilted a bit but she didn't care. Their exquisite smell cleared her nose. Anne wondered who got them for her – a lover? Maybe.

"It depends on what she remembers," another deeper voice answered. "Keep her sedated – and move her to the under-ward, we don't want her screaming the place down again." Anne heard a door close.

She saw a doctor before her – he had thick glasses and a stern look in his brown eyes. His monotone made Anne feel oddly relaxed. He looked as the man exited with a distrustful look. Despite what was demanded of him, the young man had calm and kindness in his voice. "How do you feel?"

Anne tried to speak but her voice faltered, after clearing her dried throat she spoke with a voice she knew well. "Fine… I think. Wha-What happened to me?"

"You've been in a… accident." The doctor looked at a clipboard and then to a door which Anne assumed the other man had exited out of. He was scared of it to open. "You've been in a coma, so don't try too hard to remember anything, okay?"

"A coma." When Anne repeated this she saw flashes of a horrible face and terror. Sheer petrified horror in her heart and mind – but she couldn't remember what had happened exactly. It was all so blurry and confusing. "Doctor, don't try to be nice I want to know, what happened to me?"

"You've barely been awake a few hours. Just – try to take it easy."

"Who got me those?" she asked politely, hoping her questions would be answered later.

"Oh, I don't know." The doctor began to check vital signs to see if she was healthy. "I wouldn't worry about it, Miss."

After another long gap in the emptiness of the room Anne couldn't stand the suspense any longer. "What happened to me?" Anne demanded this, staring right into him. "I have to know, please."

"No," he said. "No, you might start screaming again and then I would get the sack. It's too soon, far too soon."

"I was screaming? I don't remember screaming… what happened, tell me and I might remember something."

The man sighed, his hand shook slightly as a nervous twitch broke in. "I can't. I'm sorry I just can't." Then he held a filled needle aloft in the harsh electric lamp.

She sat up in preparation for the injection. Unsure about his intentions but deciding to trust him despite what stirred within her.

When she leaned against the wall of her bed Anne noticed something. She noticed her arm for the first time; it was encased with a bandage that was thick. She barely noticed it at first. But once she did it did spark some questions but she was unsure of what she might find underneath, would it give her the answers she wanted? Was this really a good idea?

She began to unravel it slowly; her skin breathing for the first time in what might have been an age. She gained a rhythm of unravelling, over and under her upper arm. The doctor didn't stay to watch, he left soon after she had begun. She didn't know why as he should be stopping her – but she didn't care much for it. He had given her a chance to remember what had happened, and no matter how foul she wanted to know. Anne was almost entranced with her purposeful, slow pace. Soon there was only one more layer to go through, and it was then that the patient paused.

Her conscious told her this was wrong – that the doctor was correct and that she should wait longer. But that conversation she had overheard was freakishly sinister from a pair of doctors in a hospital. They were plotting something and told her not to remember – why? She breathed in. Then exhaled out.

"I want to do this." Anne said with a little strength.

She uncovered the scars. What she saw did not make her gasp or scream as others might. She watched with such intoxicating interest and then it all began to come back, as loud flashes of memory.

George with the rifle, killing Pincer, his head exploding with blood and flesh; the knife he wielded and the slicing of her skin. Her skin and flesh burning like a dozen suns underneath her arm screaming for him to stop, begging louder than anything in the world. The hell he had created and what he had branded her forever as on her upper arm – he wrote one word that had become her curse.

WHORE

It was rough and inaccurate; the letters jagged as she remembered resisting the hatred that she could feel from his hand. Then it was another blur as she held a gun; she held it tightly with the fear and river of blood, but remembered their love. The blissful feeling made her stop and wonder if the monster before her was truly lost – whether he could be salvaged from the world he had created. Anne had asked him, she had told him that it wasn't too late, that they could walk away.

Instead he had shot her.

No… No that was wrong… Something had distracted her – made her look away for a second and miss that look of murder intent. What was it? What had happened?

She saw his face before her – young and sharpened features. Wise eyes that fooled many into thinking that he was naïve but he knew of the world as an old man did. He had seen so much death and felt those around him rot into the ground. Anne knew his name and to imagine his fiery hair blazing in the darkness. He was her beacon of hope when she was sleeping – he was the reason she had woken. She blushed from imagining his unusually grey eyes focusing entirely on her as they sometimes did. Anne didn't understand why she reddened from the picture in her mind, but she was red before she knew it. But his name… what was his name?

The doctor returned and noticed that Anne was inexplicably watching the slightly pink scars on her arm. She touched them lightly and they didn't sting as she expected, they a part of her. Yet they didn't quite fit. He sighed as he injected the drug into her.

"I'm sorry." He said quietly, averting his gaze from her innocence.

Anne felt drowsiness but saw the guilt in him before he looked away. "Doctor? What have you given me?" he didn't answer. "Doctor?" Anne cried desperately but the drug was strong.

She fell underneath the weight of it. As if she had the world forced upon her fragile back. Anne sunk into the thin mattress. She thought of that mysterious boy. The boy and his dog white as snow.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The aged doctor knew that this was completely wrong in the back of his mind. His colleagues had told him specifically that the girl was dangerous and disruptive to the other patients. The protocol demanded that he continued with his duties – he had done this but there was a nagging. The voice within him screamed to him that this was unethical and wrong in many ways. But his childish instinct was often wrong about emotional matters, he wasn't about to start trusting it due to fear of the unknown.

Everyone had become afraid. Mostly of each other – chaos and ugly lies roamed the streets freely nowadays. But also because of a deadly Shadow that took lives like they were twigs; whatever it was it harmed everyone and anyone. A serial killer - the police were useless, they thought of nothing to stop it. Whatever it was it had become unstoppable.

But the aged doctor was insistent still on doing his job. Everyone demanded he do it most at this time; the one time that only the selfish would survive. When the sick were left to die because they couldn't handle themselves. He would not perish, he swore this as a vain man, but he didn't wish his patients to die; to get a black tarnish on his spotless record.

Anne Poart was no exception to the rule - even though it would've been kinder if she hadn't woken up at all. His time wouldn't be wasted with her.

He wasn't going to tell her about her father. He didn't wish to tell her anything at all about the horrors of the recent events. How could he even consider it? She was fragile – had a little amnesia but that would go away soon, he was certain – but still able to break down completely.

He had a choice to try to argue that the case wasn't lost with her - but why would he do that? She got herself into a dangerous situation, got shot and nearly died. He couldn't do anything about it now. She was attacked and had become an inconvenience that everyone had to deal with. If he had argued then he knew the consequences; probably leading to him getting sacked. Would he really waste what he had for this girl? She was beautiful, but his wife was more so.

He couldn't lose his job and what he had with Flora – he just couldn't. That was why the foolish Poart girl was now lying with a constant supply of nutrients and drugs keeping her under. It appeared like a coma and it was hoped she would maintain it without disturbing other patients until a place was found for her. Anne Poart had no family now and needed to be kept securely. He didn't feel guilty or remorse of this horrible situation. Even though he knew that everyone wanted her not to wake at all, she had no place in the world anymore.

She would not wake up – he didn't consider it any fault of his even though he suggested having her stay under the fake coma. Permanently.

From his consideration of this he did not dare speak. But a man did arouse him from the silence that he surrounded himself with.

"Excuse me, doctor?" The doctor looked down upon him through his spectacles. The brown haired man before him wore blue scrubs and a nametag that called him William. He carried a backpack on his shoulder and looked youthful in the way he composed himself. "I'm on call tonight – can you tell me where the coma patients are?"

"Very well, I assume you are here for Miss Poart," the aged doctor led him to the stairs, speaking as he walked. "But you must be careful of this patient. She is one we must keep a close eye on."

"What happened to her?"

They proceeded down a long set of stairs leading into the depths of the hospital. Few were brought there, Anne Poart the first one in a long time, she was held there like a prisoner. A sleeping prisoner in a place where guards do not roam. "Miss Anne Poart – don't you listen to the news, boy? She used to be upstairs but we brought her down here when her father was murdered." he stopped himself before he went any further.

"Why?"

The aged doctor sighed and spoke hushed tones to the on-call stranger. Protocol told him not to but it was better if the youngling was aware. "She woke up. A coma patient for barely a few months and she just started screaming days ago. Ridiculous – I know – days after her father's death. We must make sure she doesn't wake up so she screams the place down again."

The stranger's pace quickened and his breathing intensified. Excitement was poorly hidden from his voice as he spoke but the doctor didn't notice this. "But still - why did you bring her here? Doesn't she need treatment, or something?"

"She is getting treatment." The doctor was very precise in his words; making sure each one stung. To question his authority was unheard of, the poor boy must be new, he concluded. "Miss Poart is being sedated until the head doctor knows what to do with her."

"What will he do?"

They arrived at the door. The doctor opened it calmly and closed it firmly behind the stranger, and he held nothing back now. He wished to tell out loud what he wished most of all from Anne Poart. The girl with nothing more to do in this world.

"You are young. You don't understand that sometimes it's better for patients to be sent away where they can sleep soundly. She'll be sent to a place like that, I'm sure, where she can stay in her coma. Miss Poart will not wake again because she has no need to. She will stay asleep for good. Away from the mad, mad world."

"For good." The stranger spat as he looked over the inert body of Anne Poart in the darkness of the cell. "How could anybody allow that? She deserves to live. She doesn't deserve to be passed around like some… some…" the word came to him but he couldn't say it. Too many gory images of her arm came to mind that he couldn't utter, instead he said: "Where are the flowers?"

"Flowers?"

"The flowers!" The on-call man attacked with such firmness in his voice that was nearing on shouting. "The flowers I gave her a week ago! They were right beside her as an apology. Because I failed to protect her – I failed to protect her from people like you!"

"Who-"

But it was too late – for the aged doctor was already on the ground. A precise fist striking him in the throat and causing him to buckle down in shock; where he struck was enough to cause the doctor unconsciousness in minutes. The man stood over Anne's body and smiled through the false teeth he wore.

"Anne?" he said, "It's Tintin, Anne, I'm getting you out of here."

Tintin didn't peel off the disguise he wore – he had to keep it on until they got out. That was the hard part of the entire espionage. He took out a body bag hidden within his backpack and went out the room to retrieve a moveable stretcher. Once both were in the room and ready he unplugged Anne from the tubes that pumped her with unnecessary drugs keeping her asleep; he moved robotically, time was precious and he daren't waste any.

Tintin did however take a moment to carefully raise her from the bed and place her in the lining of the bag. He treated her like precious glass, as if one knock would damage her perfection; he knew haste was essential. But he couldn't be fast when handling the last friend he had on Earth – she was awake and alive. He couldn't leave her here. Tintin covered her in darkness and zipped the body bag up; with the amount of drugs in her system it was unlikely that she would wake up any time soon.

He wheeled away Anne in the bag on the trolley – heading for the elevators upstairs and lowering his cap over his wig. This was his disguise; a false nose and set of teeth that were jagged and uncomfortable, his voice had changed a bit making it older and muskier due to the change, he wore a wig but the only trait that he couldn't change or hide was his limp. He had done his best to heal his broken leg alone but there was a noticeable limp in his gait; Tintin winced as he walked but that was enough to hide it for the time being.

He was close to the exit – nobody had even stopped to look who he was or what he was doing with a body bag, but he had an excuse that was crude but had to do. This was when he noticed people running around confused and disorientated – to his dismay he realised that they were looking around for suspicious characters, those who would be trying to smuggle patients out of the hospital. He couldn't care as to why they would care about a patient that nobody wished around anymore, so he quickened his pace slightly, allowing himself to let the panic around him ensue. He could taste the smog of London ahead, he could even see a little of the van that would ensure his escape – all he needed was to reach it.

It was surprising to him, for nobody even considered him until he was already out the door. He was standing with the body bag in tow and looking back to the mayhem he had inadvertently caused, it caused him to smile. Tintin was glad that he wasn't like them – like the aged cruel doctor he had knocked unconscious or these confused people who rushed around with nobody to retain order. Chaos was normal now – since the murders had begun everyone had been taking the law into their own hands, arresting those of high suspicions as if they were witches in an invisible coven.

He stood before the rush of bodies, but then his heart fell when he noticed one was pointing at him. Someone had at last noticed the stranger and the body bag at his side which was suspicious, Tintin moved quickly, putting Anne in the back calmly as he could and then himself in the front. The steering wheel beckoned him and he went to it, gripping it with both hands tightly and fired the engine in haste; others were being gathered in anticipation for a confrontation. Tintin pressed the accelerator and the tires screamed as he went backwards out of the parking space he had chosen.

The men and nurses that had noticed him filed out screaming him to stop but he did not, Tintin couldn't just stop when he had Anne in the back, unconscious and in need. He never abandoned his friends and furiously drove forward despite their cries, heartbeat in throat and sweating uncontrollably – to his dismay he knew the van had to be ditched somewhere. It was unfortunate but had to be done, because they would've seen his number plate, some would remember and he would need to be rid of it.

He escaped into the night with little pride; he was afraid of her words. What would the infamous Tintin look like in the eyes of the beautiful innocent Anne?


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Anne woke to the sight of dark woods and chains mounted on the rooftop. She remembered being in hospital, being in a coma. She was asleep for what felt like an age. Taunted by that monster – that thing that took the name of her lover. No she didn't love that man; she never could and never did. Tears filled her eyes unexpectedly as she saw it all flash past her – the whole thing.

What had happened to her?

Anne wept in near silence, sobbing slightly and letting the water fall from her eyes and down her face. She wouldn't have minded death now, she would've welcomed it. Living was a cold curse that she didn't want to think about now she was forced to endure it. But she knew that was wrong somewhere and once the thoughts of moving on started they couldn't stop. Anne was stronger than this and she forced herself to stop once she thought of him. She had one chance – she had Tintin, his memory was enough to keep her afloat.

But it wasn't. Anne needed him now more than ever and she cried even more. Curling into a ball and let it all just fall apart inside her. She was a wreck and probably looked like one too. She rubbed her eyes and deprived them from the remaining tears she could cry, Anne then got up.

She straightened herself and was ready. She didn't know what for but she barely cared.

Anne had been sleeping in what seemed to be a makeshift bed. It had a thin mattress that was reasonably clean but browned from time; Anne wasn't disgusted, for she had seen worse. There were no walls, not really just planks put up against four pieces of debris and it was crudely done as well. Anne saw also that there were flowers by the side of her bed – flowers that literally took her breath away.

They were the same given to her that she saw by her bed in the hospital.

Anne dared for a moment to dream. Dared to think that the possibility was true – that it was the man who had given her such a lovely gift who had saved her from that prison. Whoever it was must be a friend, she thought, it must be someone that she knows well enough.

She darted away and went down the coal lined path. Anne called out in sheer joy, called and hoped he would answer but none came. She ran in barefoot and barely noticed how she was caked in the dirt and dust in this place. Anne thought of Tintin, she thought of the amazement and happiness on his face because they would soon be together again. Everything was going to be fine now!

She saw him sitting by a fire in the centre of a large space not far from where she was asleep. Anne was asleep too long and was more awake than she ever had been. Whoever it was sat hunched over his leg, his complexion pale and eyes almost empty. He reacted to her presence but did not acknowledge her; the stranger looked back to his injury with piercing shame in his eyes.

As she approached her smile faded. The stranger was someone she did know but barely recognised for there was no smile on his face. He was saddened and on the brink of collapse as she was.

"Tintin?" Anne hadn't spoken in so long what she had meant to say was barely heard. But the man before her knew what she said.

"Hi Anne." He spoke composed and calm. But he knew so much that she didn't – Anne's pureness untainted by the broken Tintin. He stroked a sleeping Snowy, unable to look at her.

She should've been delighted – but she was not. For he had changed and she could see that he had. Change was something she had become so afraid of now because that was how it started with George. The little differences before the big ones took over and cut her to pieces. "What happened, Tintin?"

The question was broad but he got the reference that she wanted to know about what happened to him. Anne sat beside him and he daren't show her guilt to her, he didn't want to appear weak and stupid before her judgement. Even though she was so close he didn't look at her, he couldn't. He sighed and looked away towards the moon that shone through the broken windows of the warehouse. Their safe-house for now. "I'm sorry, Anne." Tintin said plainly. "He shot you right in front of me. I've seen that happen to my friends before but that wasn't an accident in a fight… that was an execution. Like you were some dog that had to be put down. I just… lost it. I didn't even tend to you – I just - I completely lost it."

Anne did remember it all and she felt burdened by the memory and each scar was felt in tenfold. For a moment she zoned out as she felt it all – but returned and spoke almost automatically. "Tintin I don't-"

"No, don't say that. Don't say that you don't blame me because I am responsible. I sat by while you were literally killed in front of me – you're the only person who's made me feel alive in a long, long time. You saved my life, for God's sake! You saved me where I couldn't save you from… him." Tintin was losing his grip on his emotions and he could feel they were boiling but he held firm, Snowy whimpered beneath his tensed touch. "I don't know how long I spent trying to write what I needed to about what happened in Iceland. People needed to know about him because he was a monster – he needed to be found."

Anne took a moment to process this: saying every word as if it were a slap in the face. "So George is alive."

"It's my fault he is, Anne. It's my fault because I had him and I could've killed him for good but-"

"Tintin listen to me. You aren't responsible for what happened to me, he is. He tried to kill me he…" she touched her arm lightly, wincing at the memory. "Mutilated me. You saved my life that day and I have one now thanks to you. I don't know how long you've been blaming yourself but you didn't kill me. You saved me. Nobody has ever done that to me, Tintin, not even my father. He left me alone. Once mother died he barely spoke to me and I was alone for longer than he thinks."

The man before her stood and turned away. He clutched back his ginger hair and quiff in one swift motion across his scalp – he had hoped that he wouldn't have to tell her so soon. That he would be able to stretch out the time so she wouldn't find out. In a split second he decided once and for all that it was too soon; another time Anne would know of her father's death.

"Tintin look at me."

He could not.

"Look at me!" Anne demanded and stood up as well.

Tintin turned slowly and stared into those knowing green eyes. She did the same into his grey ones and together they truly saw one another in much pain. He felt them water as he looked to her slight build and extraordinary appearance. Anne didn't even know that her father was no more – she couldn't yet. He never wanted to tell her even though he knew he must soon. He just wanted to be with her – laugh and cry with her as any friend should. But that was always too much to ask from Tintin. The boy who always asked too much.

In the huge space of lies and missing days there was something there. A connection so strong that not even death could break it – between Anne the sleeping beauty and Tintin the boy reporter there was a raw companionship that only they could share. There was, perhaps, too much in between for them to see this.

It was Anne who walked towards him, in the nightgown that the hospital provided in bare feet. She saw the impossible – the boy of such courage and wisdom of the cruel world breaking apart because of little Anne Poart. She thought of herself as insignificant and shallow for so long; she considered herself stupid for even getting Tintin involved in her life. But she was relieved also. Alone she would be dead by now by Pincer's hand – he had saved her from more than just death, how couldn't he see that?

He resisted her gaze but felt it bore into his back and through his very soul. Tintin had done so much in his life and was afraid of the only person to ever see him for what he was. He had run so much in his life, saved lives and destroyed the corrupt empires of gangsters and drug dealers. He had gone to the army and killed men for his country, the thought of which shamed him. He drowned in that feeling and he felt it consume him completely. The true boy before her was a coward, how could she not see that he was?

Anne held Tintin. It was comforting at first and friendly as a hug. But as time went on she held him tighter – afraid that he would disappear again if she dared let him go. The feeling of safety and his musky, manly smell was beyond intoxicating. She didn't want him to be perfect, she never did; but sometimes he thought he was so close. Tintin was so close to being perfect that she felt unworthy in his presence. She just wanted him to be with her. Not a protector or an ally, just a friend. She just wanted him to be there – not as repayment, how could he even think that he owed her anything?

Tintin reluctantly hugged back, the truth cascading on his mind like a cancer. Eating away at him and each piece it took caused him to go deeper into the situation he was being pushed into. He smelled her again, remembering on the boat when it was all around him and how he saw flashes of her tired face healing him. Tintin felt intoxicated by the angelic Anne that he knew once in a dreamland.

"Come on." Tintin said at last with his boyish smile, releasing her from the hold they had on each other. "You need something to wear."

Anne looked down at herself and answered thick with sarcasm. "And I thought that hospital fashions were all the range now?"

For the first time in a while, Tintin laughed. It warmed him on the inside and made the dark, grey world he was trapped in a little brighter. Snowy barked in appreciation of hearing it once again. "OK then I'll just throw away the stuff I got for you, it's no problem."

"What do you mean? You bought me some clothes?"

Tintin shrugged, "Bought might not be the exact phrase I would use…"

Anne's eyes widened in shock of the idea, her mouth becoming half a scowl, half-smug. "You stole clothes for me? Can't you stop breaking the law while I'm around for one second?"

The boy winked cheekily and held out his hand for her to take. "Now why would I do that?"

She rolled her eyes as she accepted the hand, smiling brightly as he led her to a place where a few bags were filled with a few shirts and jeans. Anne didn't expect this little to be taken, there were only three bags full of clothing. She knew that Tintin wasn't bad enough to take more than he needed for her. Anne knew it was against what he would've preferred, he was a law abiding citizen most of the time. It was sweet, Anne admitted to herself, and for a moment, at least, she forgot about the troubles of her world.

Tintin stood away, looking quietly at her as she chose through the many shirts, blouses, skirts and jeans that were picked out for her. Snowy joined him and the human stroked his soft head between the ears; which he knew was the dog's favourite spot. Anne had fun while doing this – as most women do – and Tintin could only observe from a distance this happiness. She had asked for his opinion a few times on some clothing pieces, but he had no comment that wasn't similar to the last. He didn't watch her undress, for she hid herself as well as the embarrassment he felt that made him look away. It was funny how he had faced so much danger and blood, yet couldn't stand the thought of looking at a half-naked woman without permission.

Tintin couldn't really sit still as the first hour passed of her choosing; he made a quick stop to the shady shops around the corner from the warehouse that they were hiding at. He was determined to come in a different guise each time and not to be suspicious as he picked out enough food to last them a few days at least. So, dressed as a classic old man with a cheap cane, wig and glasses, he entered. Snowy was obviously at his heels as he bought dog and human food as frugal as he could. Once he and the pooch returned he saw that she was wearing something that he had feared she would notice. It was a dumb idea to get her such a dress – he wondered why he got it in the first place.

Anne wore it with pride, playing a little with her dark hair and smiling to herself in the broken mirror Tintin procured for the mediocre fashion show. It was a red dress, wine red, with a blushed flower on her left hip that looked like a rose. On Anne it looked exquisite, her curves perfect for the design and the colour brought out the true green of her eyes. She wore unflattering sneakers with the outfit, but Tintin didn't notice or care, he was completely lost in the spell of the Aphrodite before him.

Her eyes shifted towards him. "It's rude to stare, you know."

"Well it's hard not to look." Realising his foolish words, he corrected and recovered himself quickly and turned away. He felt the familiar heat in his cheeks and ears; the blush wasn't helping and he turned away speaking and trying to calm himself down. He wasn't attracted to girls or to anybody, now was not the time to give into human emotions. He went to the cheap microwave that he fixed up from the pile of rubble and scrap metal around him. Tintin hadn't tested it, but was fairly certain it would work. "We have sausages for dinner, you hungry?"

"I've been in a coma for a few months, so yeah I'm a bit peckish." Anne said jokingly, Tintin was silent and feeling the press of the guilt upon him. "Oh God, Tintin, lighten up."

Tintin did smile at her request; she came towards him with the dress still on – making him all the more nervous. This inadvertently made Snowy mimic his master and caused him to be aware and nervous as well. The pooch was expecting armed men to come around the corner and waited in apprehension of this. "You gonna wear that?" he said quickly, averting his hungry eyes from her.

Anne nodded, brushing away some black dust from the bench they had been sitting before lowering herself onto the seat. "First time eating out without the need of a tube, a special occasion. Besides I love sausages."

"Really?" Tintin raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.

"Yeah," Anne spoke as if it was an obvious fact. "Did you think that because my father was rich that I like caviar for breakfast? Did you think that I haven't had sausages before? Or did you think that I am dim enough not to understand that you're in trouble?"

Anne watched calmly as he looked at her, thinking about what she had just said to him. Realising that the words were bound to pass her lips and he regretted everything. She continued eager for the truth that everyone kept denying her. "We're eating readymade sausages and mash in a half-wrecked warehouse, Tintin, I'm not stupid. What are we doing here?"

He wanted this to last longer – this happiness to be with them forever but it was impossible to avoid now. Tintin placed the ready-meals down near the microwave and shuffled himself awkwardly, unsure of how to inform her of the news. "I'm on the run. The police think I killed someone just because I know the combat move that the murderer used on him."

"Who was it?" Anne stared with those eyes that Tintin couldn't smudge with his knowledge.

He swallowed dryly and knew that he couldn't do it. He just couldn't do it and he peered to his dog with regret at his decision before he had even made it. Tintin felt physically unable to tell the woman who had seen too much pain that the father she loved and cared for was now gone. That he was the one who supposedly killed him in the coldest blood – mere weeks before the old man had to live. How could he possibly do that to her?

"I don't know." Tintin said quietly, regretting his words before they were spoken, "Just a random guy."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The morning afterwards brought a bright sunrise. The London streets were flooded with orange from the exquisite rays of light, yet workmen and women went about their day wrapped in greys and blacks. The day was alive with sunshine but still stabbed with a bitter cold that could bite deeper than anything. Most grumbled their way around the streets to others of their complexion about the news and idle gossip, living their lives as English people did.

Anne was less like them. She was becoming more interested in other affairs than that of neighbours or politics. The things that truly mattered – like who would frame Tintin? Why would they go through the trouble? Why did that man die, whoever he was? She was sympathetic of him, and hoped that he was having a luckier time somewhere else other than this cruel Earth.

She lay next to Tintin, his breathing light and restful – they slept facing each other. Like they had to prove to themselves that they weren't alone anymore in this. The night was filled with laughter and jokes that caused her to smile slightly at the memory. They talked for so long – through most of the night they spoke about life and death, they told stories from mostly Tintin's adventures that raced their hearts and caused Anne to freeze in anticipation. Once the conversation began to tire, they slipped into sleep. It was the most fun she ever had; it felt so comfortable despite the lack of structure to the place they were in. Even though of this it felt right – as if she was meant to be there, with Tintin and Snowy, letting hour after hour go by without care.

But she found that he was… distracted by something. Anne suspected that he was withholding some truth that she wanted to know. She wouldn't press it, as she trusted his judgment in this. It bothered her, though, when he spoke of the murder that caused them to be on the run.

But it was a good night, Anne decreed, the best one that she had in a long time. She wished that it lasted longer but knew nothing could be done about the constant flow of time. So Anne reluctantly sat up in preparation for the new day. She wondered on what they might do this day, letting her thoughts wander for a moment or two on how impossible and exciting it would be. Maybe they would find clues and follow them up; she would begin running for her life and feeling that adrenaline pumping through her veins. It would be terrifying - it had been and because of the familiarity of the terror induced feelings, but she was still apprehensive at continuing on this dangerous path. Because she now had a choice, and Tintin beside her.

She stroked what she had thought was Snowy's fur, but she soon realised that it wasn't fur – it was hair. Tintin's hair. Anne took her hand away as if it were actually on fire; she didn't really know why she was doing it. She was stroking his hair automatically, a reaction to the comfort and peace that she felt in this warehouse. Anne had done it in the Prawn as well; she had stroked his hair as she tried to plan her suicide and thus the aversion of Tintin dying. She seemed to do it to comfort herself when situations were desperate.

Was the situation desperate?

It took little time for her to conclude that they were desperate. They were hiding in the darkest corner of London, trying to find who could've killed the mystery man. On the run from the police and eating meals that were as plastic as the containers that held them. At least she assumed that was what they were doing; it would be unlike Tintin to just sit around not declaring his name innocent. It was going to be hard but Anne didn't want to be anywhere else. Not even with father – things were too complicated between them for her to be talking to him normally.

Anne watched the boy reporter sleep a while. She thought about what would go through the dreams of the illustrious Tintin – as she considered an eerie thought penetrated her. What would he be dreaming about? How could he know about combat or shooting people? What kind of journalist was he? Who was he?

She didn't really know him. Yet she was sharing a bed with him. This alerted ancient warnings that her father taught her as a child – that men were untrustworthy. That the opposite sex as a whole are more willing to lure a respectable woman into bed so they could get her well-earned money. This lesson wasn't heeded well from her, Anne would admit this, but she thought that her father was being dramatic and overprotective with the matter. As usual he was putting money into everything, using it to make him right in every way. When Anne was older and first learned of these lessons of life at university, it was then she fell under George's influence.

Anne didn't know what he was doing at the time, obviously – but she sometimes wondered if her father did. He didn't seem to mind George and it was a question she was eager to ask him when all this eventually blew over. Maybe longer; it was unlikely that she would be able to see him so soon after Tintin's name was cleared. Her father's nature was unusual when it came to Anne's 'friends'.

Tintin stifled a yawn and squinted in the daylight. As he sat up and stretched he went to pat Snowy who was comfortably sleeping between them. "Morning,"

"Good morning." Anne smiled as she spoke – it was so full of light that it seemed to dim the sunshine in Tintin's eyes. She still wore the dress from the night before and her hair was messy and tattered. He stood up from the couch that had become their bed for the night and stretched properly. He winced at the unexpected pain at his injured leg, but he was certain it would be subdued in time. The relieving cracks and snaps of aching bones caused Tintin to sigh in oozing pleasure. "So what's the plan?"

"Plan?" Tintin crossed the blackened floor towards what would be their breakfast. Cheap porridge oats that were suspicious in texture – but there wasn't much use complaining about it. "Honestly I didn't plan much further than your rescue."

An awkward silence followed, they remembered that terrible place where Anne was trapped. It was her who spoke with tension that couldn't be ignored. "Thanks for that, by the way."

He only nodded. "We have no clues as to who the murderer is, why he killed, nothing. We haven't got anything."

"There must be something," Anne said as Tintin opened two sachets of the cheap porridge and mixed some milk into the dusty mess. He was careful in his movements, still sluggish from being half asleep. "How about the victim?"

Tintin paused. "Don't know him." He continued to make their food.

"You must know something," she retaliated. "Maybe he had enemies or maybe he was involved in-"

"He was rich. He had many powerful friends and few enemies who would be bothered to cross him. Most of which are dead or too disabled to even care about him, the few young enough to stand up against him aren't murderers. The guy was a lonely old man who was…" Tintin was unsure of how to put it; his mind was still too slow to provide him with no other alternatives. "Pitied."

"Why?" Anne asked, inquisitive now, interested in what she was about to hear.

"He was dying. He had barely a few months to live." Tintin pictured Anne's father's body being wheeled away on a covered stretcher. His brittle state when the old man had confronted him at the hospital; he was right – Tintin had no right to see Anne anymore. As usual he had ignored everyone but his own advice, which told him to stay by her side. His guilt was attempting to take him completely, so he ignored these thoughts as best he could. "Not sure what was killing him but someone obviously couldn't wait. But nobody has motive – no clues were at the crime when I saw it for myself."

"You went to the crime scene?"

"Yeah," Tintin stated as it was an obvious fact – he also her interest and was unsure of it. "Although there wasn't much there to see."

"What do you mean?"

"The murderer was an assassin. Highly skilled and much more professional than I've ever seen." He shrugged. "Not that I've seen many, but he went to the army and was trained well, that's for sure."

"No evidence left then? If he's a professional then he would've made sure not to, right?"

Tintin nodded in agreement of this. It was Anne that spoke again after the indication. "So we have nothing. We can't even find evidence, let alone the murderer."

"Yet," Tintin corrected, serving Snowy's dog food in a bowl and placing it on the ground by his feet. The dog went to his master and ate obediently. "We will get the killer, somehow, but right now laying low is what matters. A lot of people might find your kidnapping and reappearance so soon a bit too much."

"And there are the police who are after you and as you're injured that might not end well, I suppose. So we can't do anything. We're stuck in a warehouse with nothing but slop and dog food." Anne saw an expression pass Snowy's face as if he were offended, the response was automatic to her lips. "Well it's true."

The dog continued with its breakfast, as if he were still offended; smug in his eating. It was Tintin who chuckled at this – the idea that she had just spoken to his dog, as he often did, like a human. He thought that she, an aristocrat in her own right, had spoken to Snowy as if she was asking for his forgiveness for her impoliteness. It tickled him somewhere; it just caused him to laugh extensively.

Once he placed the mushy grey soup on the semi-clean plastic table in front of two chairs Anne joined in. Realising as well and thinking of the ridiculousness of what she had just done. She had a lighter tone of laughter and her eyes twinkled as she did so in the passing daylight. The delight and amusement in the large space of the abandoned warehouse felt like the taste of honey on a winter's night.

When the laughter died down, they ate the substance that was supposed to be porridge. It was watery and flavourless, but it gave them the necessary strength they needed. Silence took over again; only the few domestic cockerels and yowling strays could be heard in the damp place they sat. Anne's thoughts of her morning daydream came to mind without warning – she was truly curious to the past of the boy reporter. She preferred calling him a man but that was his acclaimed title due to his youthful features.

She voiced her thoughts. "Who are you?"

Tintin looked up from the tasteless mush he was consuming and shifted his eyebrow suspiciously, assuming it was a pun of some sort. "You don't know? I thought you would've bothered to learn my name by now."

"Very funny." Anne admitted with no amusement in her voice, leaning back in the cheap plastic, briefly abandoning the meal before her. The chair creaked under her weight. "Seriously though, who are you? You know nearly everything there is to know about me but I know nothing about you."

The man rolled his eyes. "I've been asked that so many times; there's nothing to tell."

"Can I be the judge of that?"

Tintin sighed at this. Knowing that she clearly wouldn't leave the subject now – curiosity of others was sometimes the downfall of his work. "You'll get bored, Anne, we could be trying to do something useful."

"Like what? Knock on doors asking about this assassin? Yeah that'll be a sight, an armed criminal turning up at an old lady's doorstep asking about a murder. We'll blend right in." Anne leaned back in annoyance of the childish way Tintin was acting about this. He was avoiding the question, she was aware of this, but perhaps this wasn't the right time. Maybe no time would be the right time.

"Who says I'm armed?"

"Aren't you?"

"No. Now that would've been suspicious."

"And staying with a recently kidnapped coma patient in a burned down warehouse isn't suspicious at all?" Anne was sharp with her reply; she resisted smiling at the idea of Tintin's excuses if the police came to them.

This thought also registered in his mind, he had almost completely forgotten of the original plan he was going to follow. He was aware that Anne had a good impact on his mood and general behaviour, but she was also plentiful with distractions. He began to pack the little objects and all the food they needed in the canvas bags they had.

"What are you doing now?" Anne asked with a slight edge in her voice.

"Packing." Tintin explained. "We can't stay in one place for too long. It would cause suspicion that we're squatting, that would lead to police being called and then…" he let the image revolve in his mind, shrugging as he let the sentence hang in the air and stuffing some dried meat in a backpack.

"Okay, I get it, they wouldn't be too happy to see you." she began picking some things up as well while speaking. "So where are we going?"

Tintin looked back at her lush, but dirty dress. "There's a place near here that we can hide out and have a radio. I think you'd better change, too, it's gonna be a long day."

The signal station was long abandoned. Years had decayed the concrete box into near rubble stained with moss. There was little room inside for a proper hideout, so no such big time criminals bothered to stay there, but it was enough for just two. Also nobody of importance would remember it so it would be renovated or even found again in the underground maze that was the British tube system.

Thus it served perfectly to Tintin's needs. It was convenient, close to anywhere in the capital and had been snuck in a perfect position where no trains would be able to see it when coming or going. But all the loud trains could be heard within a few hundred yards, this annoying, chugging noise was its only downfall.

Tintin entered with Anne at his heels, the day was almost over and the sun was going down at an alarming rate when they entered the underground tunnels. Sneaking around left and right in the rocky confines of the train tunnels was a daunting, haunting experience for Anne especially. She used to take the trains to get to her apartment and felt the uncomfortable pop of her eardrums pierce her like an arrow through the ear.

When they entered it was far from what Anne considered a home – there were walls with peeling white paint on them, a cream carpeted floor stained with coffee and the unmistakable red of wine and an abandoned cheap grey desk. There was also a mini fridge, a wire frame and thin mattress that Anne supposed was a bed, a cupboard and a radio next to a smashed computer.

She went over to the electrical devices and indicated the destroyed monitor of the computer. "Your work?"

Tintin shrugged. "Nope, for once it wasn't me."

Anne smiled and chuckled a little. "Well at least we have the radio."

"Well we would – if it worked."

"Ah. Okay, no radio." Anne let her shoulders free of the baggage that she carried on her back; this feeling was enough to cause her to sigh in pleasure.

"It just needs a little tinkering and it'll be fine." Tintin dropped his own backpack and retrieved his Swiss army knife from his pocket and sat with the radio on his knees. Then, as he fiddled with the old battered radio, Anne sat and began her questions again.

"Why don't you want me to know about you?"

"I told you. There's nothing to tell."

Anne could see the lie in plain sight. She disliked how he was so insistent on keeping it profoundly. "Don't you trust me?"

"Of course-"

"Then what, exactly, is the problem?" Anne demanded, not bothering to hide her anger and betrayal.

Tintin sighed. Perhaps he did owe her this much, but she didn't want her to judge him as the rest of the world did at his exploits at war or childhood. Trust was as much a fiend as an ally in this unusual case, he wished her to not need this from him but it would not succeed to persuade her. It was unfortunate that Tintin was aware of this – he was reluctant and decided to tell her his tale.

"I don't really know where to begin." He spoke with his attention focused on the mechanical task at hand. But he was aware of her looking intently at his every word – fascinated with what the famed, mysterious boy reporter had to say. "I was born in Bulgaria but moved to West London as a child. It was what some might say a good life in the city. I went to a good school and the man that was my father wanted me to take over the family business when my time came. Well, he wanted me to do a lot of things.

"I wasn't like him as he thought I was. We were completely different people; I had morals. He was more interested in the state of poor families who didn't pay their interest fees on time. Less so about whether they would have a home or any food to go back to after they paid the money. He was a sick, sick bastard." Tintin paused a moment as he delved into the ancient memory, watching though the eyes of a frightened young teen as his mother was beaten before his eyes. How his father smiled when he saw his son watching him, saying that this was the role of women in the world. "When I told him that I wanted to be a journalist he laughed as if it was a joke. He didn't care about the media and hated the fact that it was not what he wanted me to do.

"My dad didn't waste any more time with me after another son came into the picture. It was as if I ceased to exist." Tintin stared for a moment with hurt clear in his expression. The awful thoughts returned to him, as he slowly faded away from that man's memory – until all that was left was a ghost. He hated his father for that, for just ignoring him because he wasn't what he wanted – wasn't the man that he wanted him to be. The man didn't love anything that he didn't want, so how could he ever love Tintin? But he then smiled at another memory of his mother shoving money in his hand as he was forced out the door. "But mum never gave up on me."

Anne gave him a few seconds so he could gather his thoughts. She wondered if this was easy for him to do, whether he had confided this to anybody else. Only one other might know of his story – it was unfortunate that Captain Haddock was no longer among them. She might have wanted to meet the man one day.

Tintin took a deep breath to quell the tears from his mother's love before continuing. "There were few journalistic jobs around, so I joined the army at around sixteen. Mostly because I wanted to serve my country abroad and had nothing to lose, but also because I knew that I wanted to be as far away from my father as possible. I worked around the world, everywhere from Egypt to America to even Japan. It was good, I guess. A life that I could handle and one that I had friends in; I might still be there if it wasn't for what happened Russia…"

Anne picked up the sentence after little more than a few seconds pause – eager for more history of this supposed war he was in. This was what she was both anticipating and concerned about, she didn't know if this was what she wanted to hear. "What happened in Russia?"

"I was stationed at the border – a quiet job. I was supposed to keep the Japanese out. I never asked why and I didn't care why. All I knew was that it was easy money to be made, so I agreed to do it. But I wasn't aware that I was also keeping Russians in. I was a prison guard for one of the biggest prisons in the world at the time.

"A family of eight tried to get out of the country." He explained, there was no emotion in his voice and he resisted it from breaking. "They were poor, starving and just trying to have a new life where they wouldn't be persecuted from being Jewish. But we caught them – the parents, four daughters and two sons – and locked them up. I learned that they were going to be shot by a firing squad because they had been trying to get out of the country for months. We were the only ones at the border who had managed to keep them locked up; there were great rewards promised for afterwards.

"But I couldn't do it." Tintin saw again as the Captain of his regiment had drinks at the officers table, ordering him to give the prisoners food that rats wouldn't eat. The fat man told him to guard them for the night, because they would be dead once sunrise came. He felt their eyes staring at him, the innocence of the children was too much – it wasn't what his mother would've wanted. It wasn't justice, it was slaughter. "The father of the family could speak a little English, so I told him that I could get them out. I wish that they could've all walked free, but back then I didn't know how sloppily I was being with their escape. I managed to sneak all the children out, but the parents were captured. They were… beyond brave for what they did to save their kids.

"The parents were shot at dawn, but I was blamed for the children's escape. I didn't waste time trying to deny it – I was proud to do what _I_ thought was right rather than someone else's orders. But I was given a dishonourable discharge from the army, which nearly ruined me. I wanted to start again so I changed my name, moved to London, got a job as a reporter, and I've been Tintin ever since."

Anne couldn't breathe. She was unable to realise how much of Tintin she had no idea about. He wasn't even called Tintin, his name changed, the things he's seen… She spoke her thoughts and leaned in towards him. "That's amazing, Tintin."

"Maybe. But I could've done more for them kids – because of me they're orphans."

Anne sighed. "There wasn't anything you could've done. You can't keep blaming yourself for something that you can't change."

"But I-"

"No, Tintin, think about the things you've done!" Anne exclaimed, "You've taken down people that some wouldn't even dare to cross! Take Sakharine – he was rich and powerful and you could've given up at any time. But you didn't, you didn't even consider the option because you were saving Haddock's heritage!" She was inexplicably grinning widely from the excitement of his exploits.

Tintin shook his head. "I did consider giving up – but I didn't because the Captain told me it wasn't who I was."

"And who are you?" Anne snapped, standing high. The pain and respect in the timbre of her voice making Tintin look to her. "You are the greatest man I have ever known. You staked your life on saving a family you didn't even know. If you asked me about you a few months ago, I would've said that you were an egotistical idiot with not enough balls to even admit that his stories were fictional. But after being with you, fighting with you… watching you die by my side. I know that's not you now. The man I know is stronger than that – you are stronger than that, Tintin."

Anne came close to him. Dangerously close with their eyes meeting only inches apart. She was on her knees and he was upon the chair, staring at her with something close to anxiety in his pupils, all interest gone from the radio on his knees. She felt the flutter of butterflies in the depths of her stomach as she kept her ground so close to him. Anne wondered for a moment of an impossible feeling – something that had sparked in her and grew in size and intensity. She had almost forgotten it, what the feeling was and how glorious it made someone.

"I don't care, Tintin, about what happened to you." her hand reached for him, and she cupped his cheek in one hand. He flinched, but did not force her hand away – it was a soft tickling sensation that occurred in his stomach. "I only know you – right here, right now. You saved me. You rescued me and I think that you need to stop blaming yourself…"

Her words were lost – everything she was going to say was gone in the feeling that was sparking within her. The musty, warm air had taken it all away. Anne was consumed in the complexity of Tintin's grey eyes, how they were so still for once. How they watched intently with the protective nature of a father wolf over a pregnant mate. She looked back with her emeralds that made Tintin wonder at how she could possibly be with that monster. How could he have ruined her? How could anybody take and destroy Anne?

Tintin didn't know what to do next, but Anne did. She was aware of her feelings now. She knew what they were screaming at her to do but she had ignored them. Perhaps for too long. She let her head creep forward – giving time for Tintin to ultimately decide if this was what he wanted. Whether this was too fast, too slow, or too awkward? Was this what he wanted? Did he want this as much as she ached for it?

"Stop." Tintin spoke with his eyes now closed, the word breaking her heart with much more ferocity than she expected. But it wasn't enough to cause her to cry, Anne would not cry. "I can't do this, Anne. This is… I just need to think. About this. About us."

Her eyes dimmed. Lowered as the situation had tensed.

She didn't waste his time any longer. Anne walked away from him and out into the stuffy confines of the underground. She walked away, cursing herself and thumped her head hard on the concrete, sliding down its rough surface and muddying her jeans on the wet earth below. She didn't care – she had just embarrassed herself to the man she truly thought could be… Why did she have to change everything in the complete wrong way? How could she do that? How could she be so greedy and forward like that? She hit her head harder. She kept hitting her skull against the concrete wall in frustration until it was near agony. Until blood seeped from a stinging wound and ran down the surface of the concrete, leaving a tiny red stain.

But that pain could compare to the already broken heart within her – which now was dust being blown in the wind. Anne hated the feeling that still mocked her because of her idiotic decisions of lovers, causing the happy butterflies within her stomach to wither and die.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Anne was only tempted back to the hideout after static was blazed through the tunnels. It was loud enough for her to be aware of it and it attracted her to return. But she didn't dare alert Tintin of her presence; she kept her distance far away in the doorway. She only listened and didn't let her stupid mouth open.

She watched as Tintin twisted a dial on the front of it, the screen with frequencies shown sparking into a yellowish colour. The scrambled words of a man speaking were unclear and drowned in static; he turned the dial more precisely until his words were clear. The monotone of the British radio station caused the familiar calm to surround Anne. In this voice there was the courage of war and panic and madness, the voice contained something that Anne couldn't seem to find the concept of. It was of trust and honesty; the likes of which she hadn't seen in some time.

The exception, of course, was Tintin, who had rejected her seductions in the cruellest way Anne could think of. She felt tears inside her open wider at this cold embarrassment.

"… The Commissioner David Lowen has entered the conference followed closely by his Deputy Commissioner. They are ascending the podium as the Commissioner prepares his speech concerning the current murders of twelve London patrons..."

Anne was interested in the words that the Commissioner had to say; she had been unaware of the current affairs for obvious reasons. Tintin was unsure about this but didn't turn off the set – he was also curious as to what his name had become, answering the questions concerning what he would have to do to clear his blackened name and where the authorities were in their inquiries.

"Good morning." The voice was rough and serious; it had a slight edge to it that suggested he was a regular smoker. "Over the past three weeks I can confirm that seven more have been murdered in similar circumstances, meaning that twelve London citizens have been killed brutally by an unknown killer who hasn't been identified. However there are leads that we are following and we have our best men on the case. Our prime suspect-"

"You mean the boy reporter Tintin?" The interruption was unorthodox, loud and rude. It came from a tinny woman's lips. There were signs of disapproval from the crowd that could be clearly heard through the transmitter.

"Yes. Tintin is currently our main and only suspect in this case. He was adept at the unusual technique in the murder that was carried out and was at the scene of the first death. The victim of which was the father of-"

Tintin switched off the radio fearfully – Anne was frustrated and made it clear as she stepped over the threshold.

She glowered at him with stingers in her eyes. "What did you do that for?"

"I've heard enough of their lies – why, do you want to hear them?"

"It might have been important! Something we could've used about the victim!" her voice was rising in volume and anger.

"No, you want to use lies against me to work out who I am. You want to listen to everybody else's opinion while I'm in the gutter with a gunshot in my head?" Tintin had flames erupting from him in such fury as Anne never saw in a human. It caused her to fear him – and back away a bit, but not back down. "Is that what you want? You want them to find us and for 'Britain's finest' to interrogate me until I'm forced to confess?"

"Don't change the subject!" Anne shouted firmly. "You know damn well that we needed that information! I haven't got any idea of what's happened since… since… I don't know when!"

"You've been away months, Anne, months! A lot's happened in that time."

"Like what exactly?" Anne demanded, her face now iron "That man was talking about twelve murders – I know that you might think that I'm sensitive in my current condition but I want to know, Tintin, you have to tell me!"

"What if it's too horrible for you to cope?" he said almost with desperation in his tone, but not enough for Anne to notice. "What if you get broken by what I say about what this world has become! You've no idea about what I know."

"Tell me then." Anne said quieter, but still with reasonable force. "Please, just tell me. H0w can you expect me to trust you if you lie to me?"

"Trust me? I saved your life! I stood by your bedside every day because I knew you just wouldn't die, isn't that trust enough? You are the only woman in the world I trust and the only person that's with me right here, right now! I gave you flowers because I let Him shoot you because I was weak. You aren't weak like me, Anne, you stopped at nothing to save me from myself and from disease and what did I do? I watched as he saw you to shreds." Tintin felt emotions run thick in his voice, it dared to break under the force that he put into his speech. He spilled everything to her – more than he intended but he was glad to say the things that ran through his mind like a deadly cancer.

Anne didn't know what to say or feel. She felt flattered, blind to what was obvious in plain sight. But she ignored this unnecessary feeling, because he had said very differently thirty minutes or so ago. "I'm the only woman that you trust? Why do you keep lying, Tintin? First you hate me now you love me-"

"I don't hate you and I'm not lying-"

"You are, I know you are! You've been avoiding subjects, looking at me weirdly to the things I say as if you know something I don't. Why do you keep thinking I'm bloody blind?"

Tintin diverted, lowering his voice in attempt to calm Anne and his own feelings down. "Anne you aren't blind and I'm sorry, okay? I don't know if I want to go out with anybody yet-"

"See?" Anne cried, "you're doing it again! You're avoiding everything that I'm saying! Just face me for once, just tell me the truth!"

"I am telling you everything-"

"Don't say that, I know you are! You turned off that thing just before - he was about to say the father of who? Of who, Tintin?"

He felt the anger boil uncontrollably, Tintin couldn't stand it any longer, the interruptions of this foolish girl, it was lost, his control and temper was lost.

"Of you! Your father is dead!"

He didn't mean to roar at her and regretted doing so immediately after, Anne staggered, Tintin stood his ground; he felt the anger seep everywhere, it would never be calmed. He spoke with much more force than he would've wanted in this situation but was too infuriated to calm himself. All around him was distress and annoyance at Anne and her pathetic words.

Anne didn't know what to say or think. She stood there – before Tintin's anger and guilt ridden gaze, barely able to feel his words. Gradually they did seep through her skin, into her bones until she felt hollow and wasted. She was empty and felt so stupid. Empty of life, empty of love and hope. Her father was always there, he just was, that was just who her father was.

The shock was like a continuous, lengthy, agonizingly painful lightning strike. It hurt her deeply and caused eruptions of shaking to occur. She didn't know what to say – she couldn't say anything or hardly think. Anne saw a younger self in her memories as she was told of her mother's death; how she cried on her father's lap as he soothed her tunelessly to sleep. How he was so happy for Anne and George when they announced their marriage. It was enough for her to cry. To sink in the depression of the truth; he wasn't there. When he should be - always.

Those words that Tintin had said about him yesterday; that he was lonely, dying and pitied. She felt bile gather in her throat as she considered the very idea. Her father was never pitied; he was strong and envied, he had everything he could ever wish for. He was happy – and so was she. They were together and that was all that mattered. Her father, her beloved father, he died a broken man. She woke up days too late! It was bitter feeling of guilt and anger combined that made her shatter completely in her grief. It was unreal. This all felt too surreal to be truth.

But it was then, as she began crying uncontrollably, that she thought of something that had made sense in the shock. That it might not have happened at all if Tintin hadn't got involved in all this. If he hadn't encouraged her to destroy the damned device and run away from her home, then maybe she would've been set free by Pincer like he always promised. She would've gone home to her father, her dear father, and they would've lived together for years in harmony. Maybe she would've found another lover – someone better than Tintin and his stupid stories and adventures. They were all fiction probably, most probably not even his own inventions, stolen and used like he had her trust. Tintin had done nothing but tell countless lies and helped her get ripped apart and killed piece by piece by George. She held nothing but contempt for the _boy_ now.

"You lied to me…" Anne could scarcely believe what she had said was the truth. Anne's voice broke as she lost herself to the horrid grief that drowned her in merciless memories. Most of which she couldn't help but regret – her life was going away as if she was dying again, dying by the edge of that blade. A death so terrifyingly painful that she couldn't face it a second time – she wouldn't let herself succumb to that. "When were you planning on telling me?"

"Anne I-"

"No!" Anne nearly screamed the word as she waved her hand into Tintin's face. She wore the look of desperation and utter loathing. "You don't get to say anything to me anymore! My father is dead and you didn't tell me, did you think that I shouldn't know? You're like everyone else, everyone who kept telling me that I was weak and dumb and shouldn't know for my own fucking good? And don't even try to say it was because you pitied me too. Because we don't get _pitied _by people like you; people who don't care about anybody but themselves." She slid down the wall and landed on the dusty floor – feeling her strength fade completely as she let the guilt and regret consume her. Her voice became quiet suddenly, speaking only to herself. "How did I… How could I ever _love_ you?"

Tintin looked into her beautiful emerald downturned eyes and saw how much pain they were in. He regretted not telling her. He regretted lying to her and would take it all back to reverse this moment in his life. When he had hit rock bottom and would prefer anything – anything, than to be standing before the only girl in the world that mattered. He always hurt the people he knew, Tintin didn't mean to, Tintin was only human. But being the human magnet for trouble was never quite enough for most – it was in this moment he could never speak to Anne again. He had forfeited the right to even look at her.

This regret was so powerful – he closed his eyes in the strength of it. Letting his remaining emotions succumb to the wave of sadness upon him. Tintin saw Anne lying on the floor of the boxed room, on the carpet with her arms wrapped around her skinny legs as she wept. The sounds of her sobbing caused the memories of her in the icy wind by the Golden River to be conjured in Tintin's mind.

He could not stay with her any longer. He took some food and the few possessions he had – saying nothing. What he had said to her was enough; for her lifetime at least. Anne did not look at him. She only stared into the space of her own anger and shame as Tintin stood and moved around. He turned to the doorway, knowing that leaving Anne's life forever would mean she would be safe from him and the constant trouble that he endangered himself into, but decided to turn back. Because he knew deep down that to not say this now would cause him to regret everything that he had done. "I'm sorry, Anne. I should've told you, but I didn't want you to get upset. You mean so much to me – almost like family."

Through a few weak sobs she spoke with surprising firmness. "You know nothing about family. You never will, bastard."

He felt that stick in him like a blackened dagger in his side. The very mention of the curse causing him to conjure anger that he had felt since that word was first spoken to him during those evil years at high school. His nostrils flared, his teeth grounded against each other and he felt his eyes dare to water as they had done far too often in her presence. His throat clenched and blood boiled, but he resisted the urge to attack her as he imagined in his mind. Because he knew that he could never hurt her even if he tried, even if she shred him to pieces he wouldn't lay a finger on her. It was a weakness that Tintin would protect now. No matter how much she hated him.

Anne realised that she had gone too far a few seconds too late; for Tintin was already out the door and tracing the tracks towards Whitechapel station. Snowy followed close behind him, oblivious as to the human behaviour.

Tintin didn't know what to do anymore. He was alone, yet again, with only a dog for company. He held his backpack on his shoulder while he followed the tracks away from the small boxed concrete room. Tintin was could feel the guilt that was almost familiar when he could hear her cries – but as they faded away that ghost still remained stalking his shadow. It took little time before he was talking to his constant companion again to allow his confession to begin.

"Well I guess it all comes around, doesn't it, Snowy?" Tintin sighed tiredly. "I did it again, I suppose. I thought that, for one time, for one moment, I didn't have to be the hero. I was talked to like a person and not a name on a headline.

"Why does this always happen to us? We make friends and they leave us – one way or another." The dog looked up at his master, his glistened eyes somehow knowing of what was happening. It would've been unusual for any other dog, but Snowy wasn't ordinary, just like Tintin wasn't. That's how they worked – as one force of indifference among the crowd. This thought made the human smile. "You think something could've happened between us, Snowy?"

Snowy looked away, he padded on contentedly while Tintin kept speaking.

"It's not like we would've got anywhere, would we? I mean, we might've become something, right? If I gave it a chance, if I hadn't listened to my bloody gut and done the right thing. But I don't know – relationships sometimes don't work out, do they? Not that I'm suggesting anything… just something, you know?" Another thought came to Tintin through the blush he inexplicably produced, one that shook him to his very core. Causing him to stop dead in his tracks and for his complexion to pale exponentially. "What if – what if I'm like my dad? What if I hurt her?"

Tintin wouldn't be able to. He would never be able to do anything like that to her. There was no doubt about it – he felt strongly for Anne. But he was unsure of what feelings he had for her; whether it was what he suspected or not.

He felt too confused of such feelings. He hadn't felt them in so long he was unsure of what to make of them. It was as if he were adrift upon these emotions on nothing but a rowboat, letting the tide crash against him, leading astray and adrift. He just kept walking until a station could be seen at the end of a tunnel, the lights bright and blinding. The cries of babies and groans of people could be heard through the darkness Tintin was emerging from.

This concerned him – the voices were scared and agonised.

So many voices came to him, disorientated and mixed together. They were female, male, old, young and of all accents that Tintin was aware of and more. "What do we do?"

"Where're the police?"

"I want my mummy!"

"We have to call someone!"

"My phone's dead-"

"So's mine!"

Tintin was greeted then by an apocalyptic image. Women and children were scattered up and down the platforms surrounding Whitechapel station. The faces of them were red from stress, exhaustion and suffocating heat of the stuffy underground. Children were crying and lost, mothers attempted to cradle them into security while fearing their own, some tears were ripped on their clothes and dirt stained their bodies. It was chaos – undying, fearsome chaos that Tintin had no idea of the cause. But it was enough for him to gape in shock of the impossibility of the scene.

As he stepped from the tracks to the platform he was met with distrust. Even when they were desperate – they wouldn't be helped by a cold blooded murderer.

"What happened here?" When nobody answered his question, Tintin walked past them, not even attempting a second time. He wasn't interested in making female acquaintances so they could break him down again.

He crossed corridors of people, a mass of them, sitting like lost refugees in the platforms. Some had horrifying injuries – blood was being patched up by novices and others were placed in the recovery position, eyes barely open, breath barely escaping their lungs. It was horrific, and the rugged boy stood above them. He saw the pained faces turn up at him in in distrust; others didn't look at him at all. Most were unsure of whether to cry, or to just die where they sat on the ground in this hellish place. Suited men holding beaten briefcases in their hand reacted to Tintin in the sense of disbelief, some standing and following him like a lost messiah. It obviously unnerved Tintin to see people like this, thinking that an apparent murderer was thought of as somebody who would know what to do – he was on the surface mere hours ago, what had happened that people would degenerate into this state of trust for a killer?

He eventually came to what was the exit of the station. But what he saw surprised him the most – a barricade on the only escape. It was makeshift, with benches and chairs and tables made of cheap wood covering the light of day, but it was surprisingly strong and stirdy. It moved little from the offense that could be heard on the other side. Tintin feared what was thudding on the other side; he couldn't understand it and it unnerved him.

Away from the mess were a conductor and a few others who were staff of the train station. Their eyes were unfocused and tired and they were petrified when the barricade shook even an inch. Tintin knew what it felt like, to be utterly afraid of what couldn't be seen or heard. With the crowd that had grown somewhat large, Tintin approached the man who appeared to be in charge. His face was haggard, slightly wrinkled and dark bags lay under his heavy eyes. He was red haired and had thinned lips from scowling at passengers.

"Who're you?" it was an old accent, one that originated from Lancaster.

"My name is-"

"Oh yeah, I remember who you are." The man leaned forward – imposing himself on Tintin, making him feel as childish as he appeared. "A murderer, a fool and someone we don't need right now. Unless you'd like to… volunteer to get out there?"

A few chuckles from the fearful men behind Tintin didn't make him stir, it made him more motivated to challenge the man before him. "Depends on what I'd be signing up for?"

The man's caterpillar eyebrow rose. "Where've you been, boy? Don't ye know what's out there?"

Tintin shook his head; eyes around him widened and whispers spread at this.

"Well it don't matter, if ye still willin' to go-"

"Hold on, mate," An Australian man came forward, he was dark of tan and his accent was thick and smooth. It was not imposed with fear, as Tintin almost expected in the circumstances. He was not of the staff and wore casual jeans and shirt – both of which were torn and dirtied. "I think the kid needs to know what he's up against, if he's goin' out there."

Heads nodded in agreement to this – as if it was a tenant from the brotherhood of men. The Australian continued: "See, kid, this afternoon the street out there was… attacked. An army of thugs, with guns – big machine guns that I haven't seen in a long time. It wasn't a battle, not anything that the police could even come up against. It was a massacre. It was horrible. We all ran into the station, a few hundred of us. But there are so many that are dead."

The other men bowed his head in memory to them. It lasted a long minute where Tintin caught himself with the situation. A killing of hundreds in the middle of London? How could this happen? Who could've organised such a despicable act of utter evil?

"Those arseholes are still out there." the conductor growled under his breath. "Stomping and robbing the dead. Because they're looking for someone."

"Yeah." The Australian said. "A girl – her name was Alice? Andy?"

Tintin looked up to the Australian man – white as a sheet. "Anne?"

"That's her, why, do'ye know her, boy? That's what the man wants –"

"What man?" Tintin demanded as he stepped to the conductor, dark fear and ice in his eyes. They darted uncontrollably while he simulated dozens of plans at once in his mind; it was a reflex he had come to be grateful for in the recent years of being chased. It was impossible. It couldn't happen. That man was dead.

But it was the Australian who answered. "He was leading them. He said that he had come here to get his wife but she was hiding. He kept sayin' that she had to come out so nobody else would die. He kept sayin' he was claiming his property – whatever that means..."

Tintin knew who it was. It was obvious that he would come back, eventually. How could he be so stupid to believe he was gone for good? It took a mere second of remembering Anne's torn body on the dusty ground before that guilt and shame became anger. A fury so foul and plain that some of the crowd fell back in the heat of Tintin's loathsome, terror inducing stare.

George was claiming his property – taking back the wife he had stolen and hurt. He had hurt Anne; and Tintin was not letting him get away a second time. He would not let him hurt Anne again, she had to be safe. She had to be safe.

He did not look up from the cold look, but his voice changed to an aged husky iron tone. He spoke through gritted teeth; this time he did not lie. He was through with lying with no just cause. "In platform three there's a path leading from the tracks to a small concrete radio station. You'll know the way – the path's clear enough and there are no trains down there. I haven't seen or heard any in hours so you should be fine. You have to get everyone out of here and if you all keep following that path to the radio station. Keep following that road and you'll find an exit."

"Aren't you coming with us, mate?"

Tintin kept staring. He didn't look up nor did his face change from the expression of utter disgust. "I'm going to be the distraction. They'll get in eventually and I'll be here guarding the barricade. It might not be enough, but maybe you'll all be able to get out in time."

He was met with a few mutters of resistance. Of telling him the impossibility that he would emerge alive, that he had too much to live for as the mere child he was. They all came at once, but stopped only after the excuses died in their throats. The Australian and the head conductor said nothing – they only stared until the quiet cries of resistance had ceased.

"It's suicide, boy." The conductor said. "Damn suicide. But if you're serious – and you will help us out, then I'll stay with ye."

A few brave nods came from the crowd, this impressed Tintin, but not enough so anything would change. He was doing this for the innocents below. "There are sick and dying down there - they need more help than me. I'm doing this alone. He will want to have me."

"You?" the Australian said, almost mockingly. "What's so special about you?"

It took a long time for Tintin to realise the answer to that. "Nothing. I'm just another guy trying to save your god-forsaken lives."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Tintin heard them on the other side, banging against the door. It was if they were demanding to be let in so they could search for anything that moved and slaughter it in their search for Anne, so she could be tortured again by her evil husband. He wasn't going to allow them to get that far; women, the wounded and children were yet to get away from their powerful onslaught. He was also determined to not let them through so they would not find her. Anne had to be safe. That was all he could care about.

He couldn't deny that it hurt him deeply when she had called him a bastard. Tintin loathed the word and hated it more when she said it to him; he thought that they were in it together. That they were partners in this, partners in crime, in survival. The word usually did little to him – but because he had told her about himself then it got more complicated. It tore him at his very soul.

The Australian was the last man who stayed, everyone else ran when their chance came. Even the conductor who was as reluctant to leave, but explained the children that he would leave behind would need him. The last man was crouched near the boy and watched him carefully, breathing heavy as he spoke. The man was brave, but was unsure of this bravery being more like stupidity, he was afraid of the fine line being ripped once and for all. "You scared, mate?"

Tintin was scared. He was hidden under some poor cover with only a pistol and a stranger who probably didn't realise what he got himself into. A few bullets and a fool against an army; that was the bad news, the good news was that he had the bullets to fight with. He was crouched with his breath steady and slow. He prepared himself as he often did when he was surrounded – he accepted that this could be his death. Tintin did not fear death a lot; he faced it far too many times for the feeling to overwhelm him, so he managed to control it. "Yeah. Are you?"

The man nodded, licking his dry lips nervously. "I guess. My name's Rick by the way."

"Rick? Tintin." He held out his hand, Rick then shook it, smiling slightly with Tintin.

"You done this before then?" Rick's voice shook as he looked back at the blocked off door, he swallowed and glistening sweat dripped from his forehead.

"Yeah, you could say that." Tintin noticed the barricade strain slightly, not waiting for a pause of worthless small talk. The danger was far too extreme and nearly upon them, there was no point being nice about it. "You shouldn't stay. You need to go now – before things get worse."

Rick knew what he wanted, but looked unsurely to the boy reporter. "We both know what will happen if I do that."

Tintin peered down, realising that this ending was inevitable since he first picked up a gun. He leaned his head against the cover they had – a thin metal structure, while he thought quickly. There had to be more, he wouldn't die without letting his few friends perish with him in this place.

He patted his dog lightly, Snowy had stayed by his side for so long; but this time he couldn't stay with him. The danger had, at last, become too much for Tintin to allow his greatest and longest friend to endure. "If you stay," he said, rubbing the dog's ears. "We both know you won't live long enough for bravery to matter."

Snowy was quizzical in the way he stared, as if he wouldn't believe what his master had said. He rubbed his head against the hand of Tintin, as if he was cherishing the moment, as if he secretly knew that this was the end. The end of their inseparable friendship.

Rick swallowed his concerns, glancing at the gun he held. "How many bullets do you have?"

"Seven."

The Australian man sighed deeply, holding out his own gun; examining it with strange eyes. He had only seen such weapons in films and fiction – it was only now he realised how heavy the object truly was. "I got a full magazine, and I haven't shot a gun before. If that helps."

Tintin noticed his shaking and took the gun out of his hand, showing him how to reload efficiently and checking everything was in order. The barricade shook much more violently; they both looked to it, anxious looks on their faces. "Don't stay here. Get out of here – that wasn't a request, you can't stay. And…" he closed his eyes to rid himself of the tears he may shed in this moment of weakness. In this moment of havoc and war that he was forced to face again. "And take Snowy with you."

Rick looked to the famed dog; he stared without believing what was happening at the boy before him. He crouched close enough so that he could see Tintin's eyes moisten, but he said nothing of it, unable to imagine the impact of the decision that he had made. Snowy also didn't understand – making Tintin's choice all the more harder than it already was. The boy breathed carefully to prevent tears from falling. "The barricade will hold for a few more minutes. In that time you need to be gone; in that time you need to be down in the tunnels. You need to find Anne. You have to get her out. You have to…" he breathed again. "Protect her. She hates me – I know, so I want you to tell her…"

Tintin repeated the message robotically. He knew any emotion would make him cry for her and Snowy; he wanted dignity in his final hour. They had to live; he would give his life freely for them to survive the massacre coming, he made it his final mission. Whatever happened to him, they had to live and be happy; they had to see the sun and have the years that he never would have. He couldn't bear the alternative. It was a short message, taking only a minute to repeat or so. Tintin then took his best friend in his arms one last time and told him to run; to go to Anne. A simple order for the dog to easily understand, not knowing that he might never see his master again.

Snowy – not knowing any better - did so with haste. Tintin watched him pad away down the stairs to the platform they had arrived in. Then he ordered Rick away fiercely.

The Australian didn't depart immediately. He clutched the shoulder of the man before him, a sign of goodbye. An indication of great respect for him giving his life so others might live; so that his loved ones would survive; the final gift to the hero that Rick didn't expect to see. Then he emptied the bullets he had into his palm and forced them into Tintin's own. A stern nod took his ultimate leave.

Tintin considered what would happen now, as the man sprinted away. He could see there was less time than he thought. Nevertheless in the time he had he could still see his eventful and incredible life. Anne was right in some respects – it was amazing the things he had done and he had saved many lives in the time. He had fun, he smiled slightly at the times he had with Haddock, the old sea captain drinking to unconsciousness on the old tub that was supposedly his ship. How he had told Tintin that his haircut was keeping the ladies away from him, how he kept saying that he needed to change it if he ever wanted to settle down with anybody insane enough.

He never wanted to settle down with anybody, he insisted to Haddock on countless occasions. He wasn't the type to sit by a crackling fire beside a family; it wasn't his thing – besides he hadn't met the right girl for him. Tintin had never fallen in love and disliked the prospect of having a woman or even a man to order him to do as she or he wished. But with Anne that didn't seem to be the case he always thought. They were in it together, and it was good. It was different and… he wanted to be with her. Tintin and Anne was almost as he was with Haddock; he was content with how life was when he was with her.

His thoughts went to Anne. He saw her as a siren to heaven, hell or wherever he was to go next and she gave him courage. She shone iridescent in the dank darkness of the abandoned platform; her hair was perfectly aligned, her eyes shone with the smile that he truly couldn't resist. The one she wore a few days ago that felt like centuries, when things were better than ever. She was right before him, looking into him, delving into his past, present and what little future he had. The angelic Anne said nothing, but she reached out with her delicate hand, touching him with grace and another sensation that Tintin denied but couldn't anymore, the feeling was too obvious. Too strong for him to even resist… he was sorry for what he did, and would take it all back. He regretted everything, but not her. Not for knowing her.

The murderers broke through with a final push, wood scattering on the floor; the world exploded with gunfire.

Anne wanted to sleep. She wanted to delve into the world of the lost and the forgotten. To see her father once more so he would tell her that he loved her. That he missed her. That he forgave her. That he hated her. He could say anything to her and she wouldn't care. She just wanted her father back. Her lifeline that strung her to the earth.

She couldn't sleep – she didn't know why or how but it didn't occur no matter how long she closed her eyes and demanded herself to sleep. Where she found herself wasn't fully in reality either; she drifted just in between. Floating above the world as she considered how fragile her own mortality was. It suited her just as well, she felt too tired to dream of regret and self-pity.

Anne's thoughts glided to Tintin. It was completely unforgivable what he did to her. She had little family; her father was the man who brought her up, made her who she was. There weren't any distant relations or cousins of the Poart's. Her family were only ever her parents, that was reduced to just her father after her mother passed away. When other strange, men began to become involved… things changed.

Her father didn't spoil Anne – he was wise and overprotective, but wasn't close enough to spoil her. They did argue insistently about George and whether he was an appropriate match for her, this annoyed her because he could not see through her blurred eyes. She knew that he would agree, eventually, but he was stubborn. Far too stubborn for the relationship to go much further under his watchful eye. George disliked this – he needed to use Anne as a human shield, and her father could prevent that.

So she agreed to marry him in secret. A stupid child, Anne thought dismissively to her younger self, she was too foolish to believe such lies.

But she had fallen for the biggest lie of them all.

She heard then what she didn't expect. The loud, insistent, exhausted barking of a dog running towards her from the darkness. It kept yelping desperately as it sprinted until it came to an abrupt stop before her. Anne couldn't believe her eyes as she stroked Snowy in appreciation and surprise. The pooch seemed like her only friend in the world, the only one unable to lie to her – and he was scared. He was panting from running and had a strange look in his animalistic eyes, as if he needed to tell her something extremely important.

"You're, Anne, right?" a voice, a strange, faraway voice that didn't seem to be loud. Yet when she focused it was right before her. A man – a dark skinned Australian man who had been running also from the panting and wheezing in his voice.

"Who's asking?" Anne was hoarse from all her crying and lack of water. She didn't want to drink though, the panicking dog at her side, which barked and jumped insistently was making her concerned. Far too worried to bother much with her mediocre needs, because her friends were surely in danger when Snowy was so insistent. Tintin would only give the dog to a stranger if things were desperate and impossible.

"Rick, Rick Halloway" the man came closer, only a step forward, more into the bright light. He was a shadow to Anne; she could barely see his face under the halo of white light. "Please it's important. Are you the Anne everyone's looking for?"

"What do you mean, 'the Anne everyone's looking for'?" she said dozily.

"I've got no time to mess around with goddamn details, there's been a bloody massacre-" Rick pointed upwards. "-up top. Hundreds, maybe thousands are dead, more wounded. Those who're alive came down here to escape, Tintin helped us get out but he's holding off the thugs. The guy who's in charge of them is looking for his wife, a girl called Anne."

"No. No you're lying it's not him" Anne's eyes widened in shock of the situation. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't. George wouldn't do this to her – he wouldn't come back to find her just for his broken pride. She felt her breathing quicken and panic to shoot through her body, causing her to shake uncontrollably.

"What do you mean?"

"George… It's not him…" she said quietly, her eyes shifting quickly as she realised what she could do. What she had to do; hundreds dead, more wounded. Because of him. Because of George. Loathing filled her as she thought of that man, that monster.

Rick continued. "Tintin asked me to get you and the dog out."

"He has a name." Anne snapped quickly, glancing at the impatient dog. Attempting to change the subject as Tintin could do so easily.

The Australian ignored her. "Tintin also gave me a message to give you. In case something happened – in case he didn't come back."

Anne sighed, expecting the worst guilt ridden speech ever to have been spoken. Half-expecting Tintin to come round the corner, laughing and joking at her pity for him. Using it so she could forgive him easier, of which she had no intention of doing. Acting like the small child he always was, not the man that she always assumed. Her mind was racing with thoughts of how to destroy George, she stood and turned away from the messenger. "I'm not interested."

"He told me that you shouldn't forgive him for what he did." Rick saw the shock on her face as he conveyed Tintin's very words, looking up at him in disbelief. Anne was unsure what to think, he didn't want to be forgiven? "That he regretted lying to you and he wished that he could take it back. He wanted you to do one thing, however, one thing that he wished that he didn't have to ask you for. To remember him."

Anne didn't know what to think of his words; they almost sounded like... an epitaph. This was real, she realised, this was actually happening and Tintin thought he was going to die. The man was silent as he watched her reaction deepen, he sighed and Rick went to join the river of refugees filing out to freedom. She looked up slowly while speaking loudly before he left the small boxed room. Her face overflowing with emotions she didn't want to feel of Tintin so soon after the lie had been admitted, she needed to hate him, but she couldn't. She felt petrifying fear that he had been hurt and a deep hunger to see him safe and alive. "What happened to him?"

Rick frowned; he had heard her voice break slightly as the true fear of the situation sank in, but he was not brave enough to help the boy. Anne couldn't see the frown, but she could certainly feel it from afar; she was afraid of his next words. Scared of what to make of them, yet determined to act upon them. "The station was surrounded by bloodthirsty thugs. All armed and Tintin sacrificed himself so we could all get away to the surface. He's gotta dead by now. There's no way that he could've survived the gunfire. No way."

Anne shook her head. She didn't believe it. "You don't know him-"

"You didn't see how many there were. Hundreds, Anne, hundreds of trained killers against just one soldier. How d'you think it's going to play out? You think he'll survive long?"

"He always survives." Anne told both herself and the Australian, uncertainty in her voice. "He always does. That's who he is."

After a pause Rick shook his head; being the realist he truly was. "He's dead. Face it, accept it and live with it, he would want that."

Anne glanced down to see Snowy before her, he stared at her expectantly. He thought the same as her, blinking encouragingly and nosing her to start heading to the station; eager to run back to his master. She was hurt by the shock of what this stranger had said, she had no time to lose and she couldn't face any more deaths. Not of those she needed the most. She stood shakily, still not quite over the shock of what she'd heard about her father let alone this. She didn't know why she believed the man, but she was certain that he told the truth, for there was no reason for him to lie. It was true that she still hated Tintin – but she couldn't let him just die for her like that. That was inhuman; that was what her husband would do.

She turned to face the way she had chosen. Anne's path was dark but she knew that Tintin was at the end of it – and he was deep in trouble.

"Where are you going?" Rick demanded as she walked out the door, the dog at her heels. "He's gone, you… won't like what you'll find."

"And you know, do you? You say he's dead, he's gone, live with it? Like it's easy? Well I've lost everything I have. Tintin… He's a lying arsehole. But he's all I have left. I'm not losing him too." Anne sighed in self-pity this was what she had degenerated into. She was shamed that she had uttered the truth.

Anne stepped out of the shelter to see the black and grey train tunnels of London. But there were no trains or even carts in stuffy warmth as one would expect, there were people filing the way past the boxed room of concrete. It used to be her sanctuary from the outside, but now it felt like it was tainted by hopelessness, it was the mere shelter she had found. It was Tintin who had made it a home for her, a place of safety. Without him she felt vulnerable and alone, loneliness was too much for Anne to bear. Where she mourned her father, mother and her respect in peace was now gone. It wouldn't be where she would mourn Tintin, she couldn't face that. She refused to let him die for her.

The wounded looked at her strangely as she began running in the opposite direction of the exit. Towards the danger and destruction; but also towards Tintin, the bravest man in London. Anne still thought highly of him despite keeping the truth from her, she said words she didn't mean. She wished that she didn't call him a bastard – that was going too many steps too far. She wanted to hate him; but she couldn't deny that he was all she had left in the world, the disgust for what he did to her appeared moral compared with her husband. It was he that she loathed truly and unforgettably, a tainted murderer and torturer. Her feet were swifter than she remembered; the grief and fear shaking her bones making her sprint through the tunnels with almost impossible speed. She only hoped she wasn't too late to save the savior.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Tintin held the gun in one of his sweaty hands; he knew that it wished to slip out of his hands and fly across the room out of reach but that would be his doom. He held on to it tightly because it was his lifeline and without it he would surely perish in this place of death, blood and destruction. There was so much blood in this place, and it reminded him more of the battles he experienced at war, the bodies that had limbs blown off and the organs that were on the floor. Tintin didn't want to die here, but thoughts of his angel kept him strong, when he thought of Anne, the stench of death was less pungent, the fear was lessened.

He was stuffed into a corner; they were shooting at him from only the front and were always trying to sneak around the corner to take him by surprise. But he expected this and shot those if they got too near, managing to steal their bullets to extend the limited time he had, but he would run out soon. Every time one died, three more took his place and the longer Tintin stayed the less likely he was to get out alive, that option was still available and his selfish side kept insisting that he took it. But he stopped listening to that side of himself after he lied to Anne. He made it as such so they would know that this was a suicide mission and that he wasn't intending to see the sun again. He was content in his death when he thought of Snowy and Anne being safe in the darkening world.

They would be fine if he endured this for a bit longer, always a bit longer until he couldn't do it anymore; until he was... He swallowed the word that stuck in his throat and knew that he was more scared than ever, it was a feeling that he didn't have often, but he was deeply afraid. Because he was alone for the first time in many years, he didn't want it to end like this but knew that a battlefield was no place for a dog or for a woman.

He checked the bullets he had – three. Just three left against what seemed like hundreds of men, his time was coming. He would be dead soon, he was uncertain if he could face the unknown, face whatever happened next because he didn't want to die. Tintin's reputation, friends, allies and the lives that he saved, they didn't matter anymore – nothing could matter, not through his eyes.

Tintin heard the man before he saw him, coming around the corner quietly, but not entirely silent and once the head was in view; BANG. An explosion of blood and gone erupted from the man's skull and he dropped to the ground immediately – Tintin sighed with exhaustion from the repetitive actions of pulling the trigger, ending another foolish life through slaughter, two bullets now. Just two against an army of what might as well be millions of troops.

It was then with a heavy gun, heavy heart and conscience he decided once and for all that he would not leave time or luck to decide his fate. He would make it his own and decide when the time was right, when the famous Tintin would at last be killed, what bullet would destroy him and where it would be. He would have that choice, at least, he knew that this was his end, he wished that it wasn't and that he was too stupid to realise but he did. Today was the day that Tintin died, and he would choose what second to come out and face the fire of battle, he would face it like the man he was never thought as. He would be the man that his father may hate or love, he didn't care, he just wanted that man to see what Tintin, his son, had become. A soldier who died on his own terms and did so with an iron face, with no begging or such idiocies that cowards would present themselves with, he would not die a mouse among lions.

Tintin stole another breath; letting the oxygen into his lungs and out as such. He tightened the grip on his gun. Ground his teeth in frustration of his own stubbornness, closing his eyes. He had a good run, but now was the end.

"Hold your fire!"

He opened his eyes. He knew that voice – and it filled him with utter disgust; but surprise and relief that he wasn't dead as well. His fists clenched in utter hate, the grip on his gun increased tenfold.

The bullets stopped almost immediately. No fool would disobey a direct order from a man so feared. "Tintin? Oh, Tintin? Come out so we may settle this like gentlemen."

Tintin stood; he was covered in blood from scars and flesh wounds that would take weeks to heal. His face more dirtied from the dried blood of his enemies, but the fire in his eyes was still enough for some weak men to avert their eyes. The men held their guns loosely in their hands and would shoot him down with a whisper of an order. But he stood his ground. He had to.

"Ah, there you are." George said silkily. "Now I think you know why I'm here. So, please, let's not waste any more time-"

"Go to hell." Tintin spat quickly. "I'm not tellin' you anything."

George's eyes widened at the curse in impressed surprise, some of the men shifted their weight; waiting for the order to blow the idiot boy's brains out. "Are you not? Really? You see I had the impression that this was a suicide mission. One against, what, a thousand of my men? I'm surprised that you got this far, honestly, and that is why I've given you this chance. Because you're a lot braver and stronger than I first thought."

"Why are you doing this?" Tintin asked with nothing but contempt in his voice. "You've killed hundreds of innocent people trying to get here, trying to find Anne, why?"

George flinched, narrowing his eyes as he sneered and strode forward; Tintin pulled his gun up but seconds too late, he was already inches from his ear and was too close for him to blow up any part of him. The man's breath was sour and acidic, burning off Tintin's ear with his toxic words. "Because she belongs to me. She gave herself willingly to me, her father even gave me thousands of pounds so the wedding could be put forward. So I could take her faster into my bed so he could get grandchildren to inherit his broken company and money that Anne didn't deserve. That is what she did to me – she robbed me of my invention that would've made me millions and of the thousands that her father should've given me in advance."

Tintin could barely breathe; he was looking beyond his words, staring at what was invisible to everyone but him. He felt all hope crumble as he stared at Anne, mere feet away, listening to George's poisoned words. Her eyes were solid at staring at them both, but leaking tears that streamed past her cheek and onto the ground below.

"When a fool promises a mass murdering psychopath such as myself his own daughter, one cannot expect to live long once the agreement is broken, can one?"

Tintin turned his head slightly as he said back, "what're you saying?"

"I think you know what I'm saying." George breathed, "You are, after all, a reporter. That is your job, to read between the lines."

He then rose from being so close to Tintin, towering over the boy and peering down at how inferior he truly was. "Now – to business." He snapped his fingers and from nowhere two thugs were upon Tintin, restraining him with their impossibly huge muscles and tightening their grip on him. He felt the hilt of the pistol he held being forced out of his grip and being taken from him. The reporter resisted but could not shake them free; he was too overwhelmed and unprepared to fight back. Yet this didn't stop him from struggling in their grip. "I want something else from you, Tintin, something that you took from me months ago that needs to come back to me. If you can give me the device then you can go home to your work, your dog… even Anne, if you want."

"You'll let her go?"

George turned away from the boy, pacing in a perfect circling around the child with both hands casually behind his back. The sound of his rich boots reverberated back to Anne's hiding place easily, she flinched at each sound. "I shall consider it; the whore is of no use to me anymore. Besides, it's plain that you want her; where is she, anyway? Where is my property?"

Tintin lowered his gaze, feeling the anger rush through him like a powerful waterfall. All other feelings were destroyed and washed away completely. "Like I would tell you anything about Anne after what you did to her. She's probably miles away from here by now, London's a big enough place, you won't find her."

George paused for a moment. Tintin thought that he had seen past the rouse and would find Anne; then all would be lost. He felt his blood cascade around his body at a speed that he didn't expect from standing so still. He swallowed dryly as the man stared into his face as many like him had before, but this man was sadistic beyond any other adversary that Tintin had fought against.

"You really don't know, do you?" George joked, looking at the boy up and down his bloodied torso. "Twelve murders of London patrons including Anne's father, then the massacre down Whitechapel high street, and you still think that's all coincidence? You think that twelve murdering bastards decided to kill people the exact same way at the same time? Perhaps you really cannot see the genius of what I'm doing."

"And what are you doing?" Tintin spat. "Because to me it looks like you've killed hundreds of innocent people just because of your goddamn ego."

"Ego?" George laughed slightly. "This isn't about ego, Tintin, this is about a new beginning. A new age of civilisation where... well I don't want to spoil the surprise."

Tintin shook his head. "You have no soul."

"Soul?" The man smiled smoothly. "Who needs a soul when I have the world?"

"You're insane, then." Tintin said quietly, the thugs tightened their grip on him.

George's eyes became icy and dark suddenly. He leaped forward at impossible speed, clamping his gigantic hand over Tintin's neck. He squeezed with no conviction and his eyes bore into Tintin's as he struggled for oxygen, he tried to pry the hand away but it was too tight, he tried to punch the hand away, somehow, but could not despite how hard his blows normally were. But nothing came through and the aggressor was barely scratched, the world spun and lights brightened around the corners of his vision, he felt his arms collapse uselessly at his sides, so this was the end. This was his end when he felt so pathetic and weak and stupid, so stupid for how many mistakes that he'd made…

"STOP!" Anne screamed and emerged from where she hid, Snowy just behind her. She was staring wide-eyed at Tintin's inert body with tears in her eyes, she didn't wipe them away, she let them fall. Her voice was quiet to him as everything was, at last, slowing. "Stop it your killing him! STOP IT!"

A laugh of pure enjoyment came from George; it was a game to him, one that he had won. "Good evening, my whore. How's the tattoo I gave you? Does it sting still?"

Anne felt her temper quicken and her hand instinctively reach for the scars on her arm, but she supressed it so Tintin might live, so that they might get out of there alive. Tintin's eyes had rolled over into his skull and he was purple in complexion. "Let him go, he's got nothing to do with this."

"Oh I think you're mistaken, my little bitch, he's got as much to do with this as you or I do in the circumstances." George hissed, also aware that Tintin had lost consciousness, and then let go carefully and methodically. Anne could only stare in disbelief and concern at the unconscious body of the boy reporter with a sore red neck. George only smiled, wondering why many of his friends considered Tintin untouchable. "He did, after all, prevent me from killing you, didn't he?"

Anne remembered the bright gunshot and the intense agony from the bulled in her side. It was sketchy, only flashes could be remembered but it was still there. The horrifying memory stalking her and latching onto her very existence for the rest of time. But her face was serious and cold, she didn't want to give the man before her the satisfaction of her tears. She was much stronger than George could even conceive.

She kept her silence.

"The joke's on him now, isn't it?" George continued, holding her stare. "You just seem to be an unlucky charm all round aren't you? A dumb girl who thinks she knows it all, who plays around with guns despite not touching one before in her life. Just like your father." Anne perked up slightly at the mention. "That pathetic old man begged to die. He _begged on his knees _for his life, or what was left of it. Not that I can blame him, you did leave him after all, didn't you? You left the house he was going to give you to come to me. To be my very own prostitute."

Anne used all her willpower to not attack the monster. He would overpower her easily and she, for now, had the advantage of staying in control. She looked to Tintin, who was lying on the ground by George's feet; he was barely breathing, but alive. Anne was relieved but too angry to express it; when she spoke it was barely a whisper:

"I will never be yours."

The man scowled. "You always were mine, foolish girl. And now - Tintin is too." He nodded to the other men, who picked up the boy by the arms and dragged him across the bloodied floor. They moved with such impossible speed that by the time Anne reacted to what they were doing they were nearly gone out the door.

"No!" she ran with Snowy just in front, his senses keener than her own; she saw them take the sleeping body of Tintin and couldn't let him go like that. She leaped over boundaries and slipped in blood and gore still left behind but didn't care because they were nearly gone. Their escape was too close to completion and Anne had to stop them, she had to get Tintin back because he would be tortured or… worse. But then she saw them – charges waiting to detonate.

Anne grabbed the dog and nearly slid in her sudden turn away from the explosion coming; she protected Snowy with her body as she ran from the bleeping dynamite that was due to combust. She heard a catastrophic bang that caused debris to fly through the air and snag her arms and legs, her back began to burn uncontrollably from the fire of the infernal power that licked up and down her spine. She heard her own screaming as she flew through the air and smelt smoke from the burning, constant burning and heat that suffocated each inch of her.

Then everything went black when she smacked hard on the concrete ground.


	10. Chapter 10

_PS TO FANS, I realise that Skut is actually Estonian but I couldn't work out how to write the accent so made him American, I know this is a pretty bad change to the usual so I hope you don't mind._

_AG _

Chapter 10 

When Anne stirred and woke, she saw that she was in a whitewashed room. She was alone in the cold, a thudding was occurring in her ears. She saw shapes that blurred against each other and mixed into unknown colours. There was an explosion; she remembered the fire, consuming smoke and the force of the impact throwing her around aimlessly.

But what hurt more than Anne expected was the loss that had occurred that caused her heart to ache constantly.

Anger erupted within her that she now knew well when she even thought of George, he had taken everything from her. Her father, her self-respect and now Tintin; he was obsessed with causing her pain and stealing away all happiness. The misery coursed through her at first when she realised that she was utterly alone stung worse than anything she could've possibly imagined. She wished that she stopped Tintin leaving when she had the chance; she wished that she was stronger so she could've followed them when they left. But then a determination flooded her with purpose, because she vowed that George wouldn't get away with any of it. He was going to pay, and pay dearly for what he had done to her.

Anne was aware of a presence in the room with her. The corners of her eyes gave her a blurred figure that she decided to quickly speak to. If only to confirm what she saw so it wasn't some elaborate nightmare. "He's gone, isn't he."

She saw the shadow nod solemnly. It was enough for her to cry again but that would help nobody. Instead the determination returned, absorbing her with the glorious feeling of a mission at hand – one she had to complete at all costs.

"Then I'll have to get him back." She confirmed to mostly her own disorientated mind.

She lifted herself slightly and felt an aching pressure on her back. It felt raw and she hissed loudly at the pain that made her eyes water.

"Please, Miss Poart, don't rush yourself." The voice was strangely kind and bright in the dim and drab ward. When she looked at the owner she couldn't help but raise her eyebrows in suspicion.

The man was unusually dressed in a long green trench-coat with shining black buttons. On his knees he held an umbrella and wore sensible dark slacks underneath the coat. His small shoes shone brightly and his eyes were large in his small spectacles hanging just past the bridge of his nose. His dark hair was a mess around his ears although he was completely bald upon the top of his head; he was skinny in build and was older than Anne first thought at her initial glance. A long, straight beard came down from his nose, almost completely covering his mouth.

Anne looked sternly at him, she was filled with anger still and she slurred the words out of her mouth in annoyance. "Do I know you?"

The man nodded gratefully. "I am quite well, thank you, Miss Poart. But I doubt that this is no time for petty small talk, a comrade is in danger."

Anne looked directly into the man's eyes, contempt clearly shown. "I don't need help thanks."

"Excuse me? I do not need to use the lavatory, but thank you for the offer." The man looked at Anne as if she was mad, and for a moment she feared she might be.

Then another man came into the room, he was the complete opposite of the other with an eye patch and bright blonde hair. He had an extensive muscular body that might've been enough for him to be a professional bodybuilder. His scars were clear and deep against the light; he was aged but younger than the dark haired man that Anne was speaking to.

"Calculus, what are you doing?" the man demanded, his accent was distinctively American.

The man named Calculus shook his head. "I am enlisting the help of this young lady, Scut. She is a friend of Tintin, is she not?"

Anne started, staring at the two men. "You know Tintin?"

"Yeah." Scut said stepping towards the bed where Anne lay angrily, shoving a finger towards her. "And before you say he isn't a killer like everyone says. He sacrificed himself to that maniac so a thousand Englishmen could live, and don't forget it."

"How could I ever forget Tintin?" Anne closed her eyes. "He's saved my life more than just once, he doesn't just kill people. I guess I know that now."

Skut for a moment looked to both her and the elder. Then, once the smug look on the other man's face faded, looked to Calculus in exasperation. "Thanks for tellin' me you found her."

"Anne Poart," Calculus said, ignoring his comrade. "My name is Professor Cuthbert Calculus of Oxford University. I am considered a genius in many fields of nuclear, astronomical and other such physics-"

"Calculus, enough with the qualifications, we don't have the time."

"-and I have come to find you and ask you for your help."

Anne swallowed dryly to avoid the guilt ridden tears that were bound to flow, still avoiding the Professor's gaze. "Haven't I helped enough?"

"What're you talking about?" Skut asked. "You're Tintin's friend, you're the reason he's alive and kickin'. You saved his life when he got poisoned by a goddamn bullet and you're tellin' me that you've done enough? Don't you care that he's somewhere, anywhere, gettin' killed right now or-"

"Of course I care! I've always cared!" Anne yelled a little loudly, but she didn't care. She was suddenly embarrassed and didn't know why she said the words she did because she didn't want to feel like that towards Tintin. Not so soon. Would they read between the lines? She hoped not because Anne could feel the tears in her eyes completely blind her from the men around her. She blinked carefully and slowly to rid herself quickly from the saltiness and utter sadness in her eyes, she hated how they stared at her. With pity she didn't deserve; pity she didn't want.

Calculus and Skut exchanged a look she didn't even want to acknowledge, she was too angry at herself. At her idiotic weakness. Anne looked away as Skut crouched down near her, forcing his blue eyes right into her brown. He had the look of a soldier who had seen war, and she only saw that look on one other.

"If you really care." He said quietly and harshly. "Then you'll join us."

"And what are you?" Anne turned to face him, his eyes narrowed.

But it was Calculus who answered. "We are the people who believe that Tintin is innocent. We're his friends who are coming together to find him – to bring him home."

Home. Anne remembered what it felt like, to feel safe and not care about the troubles of the world within four walls. She saw her father and mother but pushed the thoughts away before they would consume her again with the idea. The idea of safety and having a place to call home.

"Also to find the bastard George." Skut whispered darkly. "Make him pay for what he's done to so many."

Anne suppressed a smile, it was becoming possible. They could find him; they would find Tintin and get him out. Then she would find her beloved husband – and put a bullet in his hateful head. Her voice was shaking with anger, adrenaline and cruel justice. "What has George done so far?"

"Nothing. He hasn't asked for ransom of Tintin or killed anymore people. In fact he's told us he isn't doing any deals until he talks to you."

Anne nodded slowly and with understanding. It made sense that he would do that – he liked playing games with her and enjoyed taunting. It caused shivers to crawl up her spine. "I'll try to get Tintin back. This has never been anything to do with him. It's just between him and me."

Skut lowered his head. "You'll talk to him first; then we'll see if going solo against him is really an option."

Anne nodded. But she didn't want anybody else to get involved. Nobody else needed to die just because of her; Tintin definitely would go home and she would make that right. Then she would kill George. At any cost.

She went into a car that kept driving and driving through London with her companions. The roads looked like the same pavements and streets over and over. It was a strange sensation that she could see normal people going about their normal lives. Anne knew what it felt like once, to be so plain, ordinary and innocent from the terror she had seen in the past few months. She contemplated where she would be without Tintin – dead surely and without knowing what it felt like to be cared for. To have someone other than her father who wanted to look after her, it felt nice to have someone like that. But she wondered if it was mostly pity for her, because she had learned after all the agony and pain that she was truly a shallow person.

Anne felt her father's eyes bore into her after thinking about how shamed he would be but she didn't feel pain from them anymore. She had mourned him, but felt that she couldn't anymore; the tears were dry and the sobs were completely silent. It was strange; it felt worse than grief, because Anne wondered if she was a terrible person for not crying for him. He deserved a daughter much better than her – in life and in death.

The world changed into countryside quicker than Anne ever saw. The trees lined the single road they drove on, bushes with dotted colours of where flowers peaked out. Farms and animals grazing in fields where the smog filled London terraced houses and shops once stood. It all felt like a universe apart from each other, everything that had caused her misery was a lifetime away. She breathed in the air for what felt like the first time, resting her head upon the window. Anne took in the atmosphere she once knew and felt calm for the first time in a long while – but she wasn't safe.

She never felt safe anymore without Tintin.

"How can he do this?" Anne asked quietly.

Skut looked up questioningly, Calculus snored contentedly.

"In – what – a few days he's got a goddamn army on his side? He freely kills hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people and nobody does anything?"

"You think he did all this in days?" Skut said, leaning forward to be closer to her. "The man's been planning since you beat him in Iceland, planning something big. He's made the entire country afraid of him, afraid of Tintin."

"But what does he want? If it was to kill me he would've done it, wouldn't he? He had the chance but just didn't do it. Why?"

Skut shrugged. "That's the million dollar question, honey. Maybe he still needs you for something, Tintin too. The guy's too smart to leave loose ends."

Anne nodded. She tried to think of what else he would want, but his entire existence seemed to revolve over causing her unbearable pain. Maybe that's all he wants; to torture her without even touching her. It sounded like something he would do.

They came to a stop before a large country manor house; it was separate from the rest of the world, surrounded by a few guards at the entrance to the building. It was exquisite in the classic Victorian style, windows on one side of the home with at least twenty rooms. The home had room for decoration, but was neglected in some ways and so dead flowers lay in the outside flower beds and on the window sills. Although it needed a few touches, it wasn't completely run-down, the windows were clean and the closed curtains that Anne could see didn't have moth-bitten holes shown noticeably. She hadn't seen such a house since her own home at Poart Manor; it felt like a lifetime ago that she had last gone there. Anne wondered for a brief moment if it would eventually become hers, perhaps it was already a torn down mess waiting for construction of council flats.

Calculus woke and led the way holding a small golden ball on the end of a string. Anne was about to question this when Skut interrupted, touching her shoulder lightly.

"Don't ask." He said lightly. "Just - don't ask."

She had begun to trust his judgement concerning their mad Professor.

They had entered the grand double front doors when Anne truly saw the operation that the men had spoken of. A smartly dressed butler came to greet the men, asking them politely of their journey and then turned to Anne with slight amusement on his face. "Welcome, Miss Anne Poart, to Marlinspike Hall."

The front hall had artillery stored in the remote corners of the room, stored in boxes clearly labelled with gun makes and types that she had only heard of in films and news reports. She could hear the house alive with activity when she saw men rushing around and converging into one room that she could only assume was the dining hall. Anne could see the stairs before her were dusty but were trampled down by a few men anxious to find Calculus and Skut; their words were drowned out in moments when Anne realised that she wasn't standing in a manor house. She was standing in a fort. A base with one objective – to find and rescue Tintin.

Anne didn't know what she expected from this gathering of Tintin's friends that he'd made over the last few years, but it was never close to this. She was overwhelmed with what she was involved in and was unsure if she would be a worthwhile part in it, she felt too intimidated. Small compared with the others who somehow seemed so strong and powerful in such a daunting place, Anne couldn't understand it at all. But she had her own agenda away from theirs; finding Tintin was a joint effort, killing George was her own objective.

She followed the other men into the dining room to see maps of London and many were gathered around her. They all wore distrustful, serious looks on their faces as they looked to the intruder. As they glared to the only female they had seen in many hardworking hours, days even, for some; Calculus and Skut presented themselves proudly.

Anne felt outnumbered and too out of place for words. Yet Skut and the Professor didn't seem to notice this and announced 'the success of another mission'. She felt as if she were a slab of meat thrown out a window with no safety net into a pit of bloodthirsty lions and it caused shivers to cascade up and down her spine. There was an awkward silence where she stood among the men; she imagined what they might think of her. She didn't care what they thought of her.

One of them spoke up their thoughts, his accent was strongly Spanish. He was a skinny man but seemed like he would be capable in a brawl, his eyes were brown as was his hair and skin. He seemed very plain compared with others; but Anne would've guessed that he was Spanish before he spoke. "What've you done now, Prof? Getting little girls to join us? I know there is no many of us, but gettin' kids to fight for us-"

"As I recall," Calculus spoke up, causing the man to shirk slightly at his bitter words. "Tintin was as young as she when he saved you from getting executed in Mexico, Señor Hesiplino?"

"He had skill! She never hold a gun, or even fight with another!"

The Professor rolled his eyes. "Again you say that she's a fool before you even know her!"

"You a fool for no hearing aid!"

"I wish Tintin had stayed as much as any of us do. But that is not what is needed at this time, sir, we need strategy."

"Enough," Skut intercepted, before the Spaniard could respond. "This is no random girl, this is Anne Poart. We all know what she did for Tintin, and we all know why she's here, so get over it."

They all stared now in disbelief as well as distrust. Anne almost saw envy and pity in some of their eyes and it unnerved her as they judged her with their hungry eyes. Even Hesiplino looked strangely at her, as if her presence caused someone to punch him in the face.

"What I did for Tintin?" Anne asked sarcastically; Skut turned to face her. She felt those barriers collapse when she spoke, her voice breaking at her shame and self-loathing. "I'm the reason he's gone, the only person who could've stopped George, I just… I'm… weak."

"Weak?" Calculus questioned, turning and looked at her with a glint in his eyes. "May I ask how you came to such a conclusion?"

"I let Tintin get taken by a psychopathic mass murderer!"

"Yeah but you were the only one to go back for him. You're probably the only reason he's still alive." Skut argued calmly with a slight smile.

"How would you know? I should've-"

"Do not think of what you should've done, because it's already happened." The Professor was firm and annoyed in his tone. Anne was silent immediately lowering her head in slight shame of questioning him and acting so foolish. She realised that she was childish compared to these veterans, and knew deep down that he was right. She was wrong and she hated how she was wining like the little girl Anne was.

Skut stole the silence the room was filled with, placing his hands on a table and leaned on them. He concentrated fully on the map that was pinned down on there, a map of London. "To bring everyone up to speed, I'm gonna go through the message we got sent again. 'Cos we need everyone to know the stakes.

"At 6am this morning the Professor and I intercepted a communication that George sent out for us to find. It went like this:" Skut picked up a transcript that he read with no pauses; he had read or thought it a lot over the last few hours. "_I know that you want to attack me, but we both know that you have no idea where I am and you probably won't find out anytime soon. Unfortunately I have the same problem in finding you and your insignificant troop. So to avoid a boring stalemate I propose an agreement – but I shall only discuss the details with my wife, she is currently at a facility which is crawling with the police. You get her to talk to me and I'll consider letting Tintin go free reasonably unscathed._"

She walked then. Out the door and away from the insanity around her; because she refused to believe it. George was sadistic and beyond insanity; he did have Tintin, even though of the unlikely possibility that she liked to entertain that he had got away. She was aware of what she needed to go to save a life but was unsure if he was truly worth it. After all, Tintin had told her a pretty big lie that wasn't easily forgiven. Yet now she was willing, like the others in that room, to risk her life to save him? Anne could see her heart break apart again into a million tiny specks, because she ruined yet another good man. Her track record of men was becoming worse and worse as time went on but this time it actually wasn't her fault. It was the worst lie because he had told her what she wanted to hear rather what was needed. That was bad, that was worse than bad, it was unforgivable, wasn't it? She was confused, disorientated and angry at her own weakness – she was already going to help Tintin after he had basically betrayed her. Why was she doing this?

Anne found herself far away from the manor. It was still in sight as she turned back to it, still thinking about Tintin. It was closer than she expected and she wished that she had gone further. But this was good enough because of the quiet around her. She sat on a stone bench, pondering what exactly she should do.

She was conflicted. She felt like everything was ripping inside her because this was no simple problem to be solved with logic or brawn. Anne wanted to scream and cry and yell at how stupid it all was; but she didn't. Because this was something that she just needed to understand, somehow she desperately needed to know the answer.

She hated Tintin. She had good reason to, he had lied to her, betrayed her. He had given Anne false hope and screamed at her that her father was dead rather than being the gentlemen that he usually was. She didn't want to be told like that; she hated how he had reacted. How he was so angry and destructive when forced into a corner. It was like he was a rabid dog let out a cage, charging at anything that would've been easy prey.

But the more she thought about it… it was more like she _wanted _to hate him rather than actually feeling as such. It was as if Anne needed a shred of pride and decided to extract it from Tintin by him saying the lie that her father was alive. Secretly she knew that he did it with selfless intentions and didn't really realise as such until it was too late. She could never really hate him, as she thought about it; she just didn't know what to do. Anne needed to be mad at someone, something, anything – and Tintin was right in the way. He was who she converged on and she had no right to. But that question still echoed inside her, that decision that would change everything. To stay and find Tintin so they could start over, give him another chance; or to leave and never speak of him or anything else again.

Was she capable to forget everything that had happened in the past few months because of her pride? Was it really worth so much that she could just forsake all that Tintin had done for her?

Anne snapped out of her deep thoughts when movement was apparent next to her. She didn't look up, but the green trench coat flapping in the light breeze was more than a clue. Calculus sat beside her on the bench with his umbrella still near him, resting on the side of the stone.

"Ah," he sighed, taking a deep breath of fresh air into his lungs. "I do like this spot. Perfect for a bit of quiet thinking."

She looked up to him. The man's eyes were kind and wise of the world, Anne needed to talk to somebody. She thought that the Professor wouldn't be able to hear half the things she said, that was mostly why Anne decided talking to him would be better than anybody else.

"I shouldn't have done that." She began honestly. "Running out, I mean. It just proves to them that I am a winey little..." she couldn't finish.

There was a short pause; the Professor came close to her, leaning slightly inwards. "I don't agree with them much." Calculus whispered, as if it was a secret. "In my opinion they're much more winey than you, Miss Anne, if it's any consolation. They always talk to me as if I'm too deaf; they ask constantly if I know where my hearing aid is. I doubt also that you did nothing purposefully; the bomb would have, after all, killed you and young Snowy."

"Snowy! Is he…?"

"No, he's quite well." the Professor insisted, raising his wrinkled hand. "In fact he's quite eager for your return. He owes you his life."

Anne felt both eyes sting with salty tears and her chest constrict with sickening guilt. "What use is a dog when Tintin's out there? He's probably dead or being tortured or probably something worse."

"Ah but you forget, this is Snowy. A Tintin tracker, if you will, he will find the boy faster than anybody else. You shouldn't worry, my dear, he's been in far more trouble than this."

Anne shook her head. "You didn't see him. He was bleeding and-"

"Please, Miss Anne." The old man said, lifting his arm again to silence her. "I was only saying as such to comfort myself and you. I do not wish to hear of his most recent… condition."

Anne saw him covered in blood and the horror of the gore filled place enveloped her mind in hate and fear. She tried to rid the image of Tintin but couldn't, it was haunting her just as her father was stalking her. "It's my fault." She admitted. "It's my fault that Tintin's been taken, that my father is dead, that all these people are dead. It's all because of me opening Pandora's Box."

"Perhaps." Calculus mused. "So maybe this is an opportunity for you to do something about it, make things right."

"But I'm not Tintin – he would do all this and more, but that's just who he is. I'm not like that; I haven't fought in wars or even know how to use a gun. I'm not a heroine."

The Professor smiled. "We can teach you such things. If you can help us then we can get Tintin out and hopefully capture George in the process."

Anne felt excited and eager when she thought of having George in her grasp, a jerk from him getting a broken neck, a pull for his skull to be crushed... "Just capture?" she said what she thought before she could retrieve the words.

"Of course." Calculus raised a suspicious eyebrow. "For police interrogation, what do you suggest as an alternative?"

She imagined tightening her own hands around his throat and felt a wave of oozing pleasure emit from her stomach. Vengeance was sweeter than any other feeling she had encountered, even though it was rare, it gave her complete bliss. Anne wanted more than anything to find Tintin and rescue him; but somewhere at the top of her desires was to kill that thing that was her husband. Once she was weak enough to fall for him, then she failed to murder him when the chance was right before her. The third time she wouldn't make such petty mistakes. Anne's nostrils flared and her teeth gritted in the loathing she felt caress her, she didn't resist it. But she did try to hide it from the wise man before her, because he would realise what she was pondering.

To say such monstrosities out loud would be foolish, so instead she shrugged innocently. "I don't know."

"Tintin isn't dead yet, Anne," Calculus held out his hand for her to take. "He needs all of us to help him because he helped us."

Anne didn't take it at once, but she did look at it suspiciously and swallowed nervously. "I don't know if I'm ready."

The Professor blinked, revealing kindness in his wisdom, his hand still outstretched. "I think you were ready when you agreed to come with me and Skut in that hospital. I think you underestimate your own abilities because you can do this. And I think that Tintin would agree."

Her eyes watered slightly at the very mention, but she didn't let the tears flow because she didn't need them. That would be weakness she wouldn't show to anyone anymore because she wasn't a child. She wasn't a silly little girl who was incapable of understanding and enacting minimal tasks. She wasn't a woman who knew of how to spend money and nothing else – Anne was better than that but she needed to prove it. To the world. To herself. To Tintin.

With a sunken heart in her chest, she took the old man's hand. Praying that with it the promise of seeing Tintin alive again would be certain.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

That night, Anne kept dreaming of death. It was of her father, bleeding to death in some dark corner; then her mother in a bed regurgitating her guts up and then Tintin. Tortured horribly by the hand of George. She saw each one a thousand times over, getting more and more gruesome and terrifying as time crept on. Eventually she couldn't stand it and she tried to force herself to wake up; because to stay would be hellish for her. She wasn't strong enough to endure the gore. She couldn't see it all over again.

When Anne did wake she had a cold sweat and shivers going up and down her spine. Her mouth was dry and tasted slightly of bile. Anne felt like she was going to cry; she didn't stop herself anymore. She couldn't – because she was weak. She felt like she was nothing; like her loneliness would take her and suffocate her in its embrace.

Anne thought that would be a better fate than to keep living. She kept wondering why she was carrying on with life. It seemed like an unbearable effort now; she had no home, no family and now, no Tintin. She wanted to be given a sign that she was still human and that she could, eventually, move on from this. But nothing came. Nothing ever came.

Then there was a knock on the door.

"Miss Anne?" Nestor. The butler that knew everything in the manor that happened. "Are you awake?"

She wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. After they were cleaned she could still feel the salt on her skin, it itched. Anne tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke. "Yes. Yeah I'm awake."

"May I come in?"

She threw on a nightgown, to preserve the miniscule remainder of her pride. Again she wiped her eyes of the dried tears. "Come in."

The butler entered gracefully, bowing slightly towards her. "Professor Calculus would like you to meet him in the radio room to discuss the terms of the ransom."

"Already?" Anne asked, surprised they already figured out what they wanted precisely within a day. But then she supposed that they might have been thinking of this for a longer time than since she was unconscious.

"They will expect you in half an hour, Miss. I shall escort you when you are ready." Nestor retreated out the door with the calm and respect of a proud man.

She got ready slowly, considering what George would ask for. Trying to read him as easily as he did of others, finding out his weaknesses to exploit. He might want money, but that was too easy, surely? If he wanted money all he needed was to rob banks with his small army at his disposal. They would get the money they wanted because of the disorientated police force who was outnumbered a hundred to one. So what else would he ask for? He didn't want anything, really, he had the power to get what he wanted. He was invincible to everyone who dared go near him.

So why did he decide to kidnap Tintin rather than killing him on the spot? What did he need him for? Why did he keep Anne alive when he has always been so desperate to kill her?

These questions slammed against her brain like a bombardment of rocks, each one just adding to her confusion and making her head ache. Because she didn't know the answer, she didn't know anything about George, what he had said to her during the courtship were all lies. Even if some weren't how could she know? The perfect lie is always wrapped in the armour of certain truths.

Anne emerged wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans; the smartly dressed butler was in a pressed suit and looked down at her suspiciously. She didn't care for his judgement; they seemed to be all she wore nowadays. Then she remembered how Tintin bought her a dress in the middle of a blackened warehouse and she couldn't help but smile slightly. Because for a brief second – a single impossible moment; she was happy.

Nestor led her to a room filled with technical equipment that Anne couldn't name or even refer to. All she could really understand was the radio transmitter/receiver on the left of the room and even that had attachments that she couldn't recognise properly. There were fewer men here, but they didn't look at her, they were looking elsewhere, anywhere, except for her. Anne couldn't get used to it – how could she ever trust people who couldn't look her in the face? Why couldn't they look at her?

She was relieved that Skut and Calculus were there, greeting her briefly when she entered and beckoning her to the far end of the room. She swallowed dryly because she was going to speak to her spiteful husband. She was going to hear his voice that she cursed for the second time in a week. Anne hated him. Wished he would die in a dark hole.

She stood by the radio transmitter that nobody was sat at; staring at it like it had a rotting corpse in it. Anne was unsure if she wanted to do this still, but didn't dare voice this, she kept it to herself because she would be asked many questions about her relationship about Tintin. She wasn't particularly in the mood to discuss whether she actually loved the boy or not with strangers. "So what do want me to do?"

Calculus smiled cunningly. "We have listed only two demands for him. But they're both substantial. First he must let Tintin go, directly to us, unharmed."

Anne nodded, that was an obvious one.

"In return he must give himself to the authorities so they might do as they wish with him."

Her eyes inadvertently went cold and her chin hardened. She wanted to destroy him herself, not have some judge do it for her. Anne wanted to kill what he loved the most, himself. George had to die by her hand or not at all. She balled her hands into fists as she thought of ripping him apart. Limb from limb.

"Is that it?" she said emotionlessly.

In answer she was handed the microphone, with static buzzing from one side.

Skut gripped her arm. "You sure you wanna do this?"

Anne looked at him – she was aware of the risks. But it was to get Tintin back, and to get at George. Both were much more important and vital than her; she lived only because of him. She would gladly die for their fates to be certain. She nodded once, curtly and sternly.

The static was silenced. Then a voice emitted from it, causing her insides to scramble and her hair to stand on end. His words burned her ears like acid – she wanted him to die more than anything else. "Good morning. Dearest wife." The sneer caused thorns to sting her throat.

Anne swallowed her chilling concerns. "Let's just get on with this."

"All in good time." He cooed calmly. "Tell me your terms."

There was a pause – everyone was still and only the wind could be heard outside the window. It took less than a minute for everything to be said but the silence afterward was constricting; almost suffocating as static filled the room. Anne exchanged a confused look with Calculus as the seconds ticked by; it was impossible that he would be thinking this long and in due time her paranoia took over. She imagined Tintin being sliced, tortured, shot and killed in this silence; no matter how much she banished the images they returned in tenfold, hurting her more than any knife. The terrifying nightmare was too much to bear, she saw the repeat of her dreams torture her. The minute cascaded past and nobody said a word, barely breathed whispers in the darkness of the early morning.

"I shall do everything you ask under one condition – I would like to spend one last day with you, Anne Poart."

Her skin went icy.

He continued, his voice convincing and almost on the verge of desperation of a defeated man: "One day with me and you can have Tintin. My surrender. Everything. All I want is one more day with my beloved. That's all I want."

Anne was about to open her mouth, spit objections and vile insults at his disgusting suggestion. She would find another way to save Tintin, but her hate was far too strong – she would never go near him. He had destroyed all she loved in the world; he had mutilated her and tried to murder her with his puppets of war. She wouldn't allow him to manipulate her like before, either. Not again.

But the microphone was snatched from her grasp before she could breathe a word.

"May we speak to Tintin?" Calculus asked desperately, ignoring Anne as she tried to take back the microphone. Every insult on the tip of her foul tongue.

A shuffled, muffled noise of clumsy movement was echoing at the other end, Anne felt her heart pump louder. She leaned closer to hear his voice once again. She tried to ignore the possibility of this being the last time she ever heard him; she was desperate to find out if he was really okay.

"I'm… I'm fine." He didn't sound it, Anne realised with a heavy, aching heart. He sounded tired, weak – she never thought that Tintin could ever sound like that but he did and he sounded desperate despite how he tried to hide it. "I'm okay, Professor. Can I… Can I talk to Anne?"

Calculus was relieved, but also frustrated as he reluctantly handed over the microphone.

She held it to her lips – trying to imagine Tintin in a different light than her nightmares. A hopeful scene that was near impossible for her mind to imagine. "Tintin. What has he done to you?"

"Nothing. Don't worry though; he's not going to hurt me if you stay away."

"But if I stay away then he'll just… he's gonna…"

"Anne…" Tintin said quietly. "It was always going to end like this. Just… Just don't try to find me, okay? I don't want him to hurt you again. If you try to find me, he'll kill you and I can't face that. Not again."

"He's not going to win. We beat him once, Tintin – we _can _do it again!"

"Yeah." He sounded tired, melancholy. "Yeah, Anne, we will."

Anne shut her eyes, trying to imagine them alone instead of being surrounded by strangers. She whispered to him and him alone, tightening her grip on the microphone. "I'll find you. Please don't give up, Tintin. Please."

"Don't look for me, Anne. I'm telling you – he will murder you!"

Anne laughed slightly. "Death isn't going to stop me. You should know that."

There was an unsure silence that made her uneasy.

"Promise me. Swear that you won't let him… That you won't just give up."

There was a second of hesitation – in which his voice hardened. "I swear, Anne."

Anne sighed and felt her throat close as she thought of different times, happier ones that she held close. "Y'know in the warehouse, that day we had together...? I want to have times like that with you. But not out of desperation or running but... but because I want to be there. I wish… I wish that it wouldn't have to be like this all the time, Tintin. I… I want to… stop. I'm tired of all this… insanity." Anne felt her throat close, she could say no more.

"Anne – I want to see you again too, but it doesn't look like it's going to happen any time soon."

"Don't say that."

"Why? Because it's the truth?" Tintin sighed. "Look, I-"

He was cut off suddenly. Anne felt the sting of tears and then they started running down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away, she couldn't. She could only stare at the radio speaker in despair. If Tintin was giving up – what hope did Anne have trying to find him?

George's voice returned. "I shall expect the delivery of my wife down Gossimer Road in London, 11AM. Be there and I shall make the swap. If you aren't, then Tintin dies."

"NO-!"

The conversation was over. Tintin's cry was now static in the soft light of sunrise.

Anne was relieved he was alive. But wished that they could've had more time to be alone. There was so much she wanted to say – to apologise, to tell him that she missed him. That she needed him now. But it seemed that the promise to find him was enough for now. She only needed time. Her faith was restored and she became even more determined to find him.

"So," She said after a few seconds of reflecting this. "What's the plan?"

"What do you mean?" Skut replied.

"How're we going to trap him? This is a perfect opportunity we know where he is, when he'll be there-"

Calculus interrupted coldly. "But we don't know how many men he'll bring along. Whatever large number it will definitely be, we won't be able to match it."

"And? We shouldn't treat this like an attack, this is sabotage – we can trick him instead of taking on his goons." Her voice began to break from the emotion that forced through her chest.

"How can we trick a man who's managed to murder hundreds of innocents without being caught? Please answer, sweetheart, 'cause I'm lost for battle plans." Skut was the one who spoke, and he did so with daggers in his eyes.

Anne was afraid of where this was going. She stuttered in utter disbelief and shock. "You can't be considering bowing down to him, are you?"

Nobody spoke. There was a deathly silence that shrouded the room.

"Are you?!" Anne repeated.

There was no sound. All eyes were turned down.

"Anne…" Calculus softly began. "I can't see another way. Can you?"

"There's always another way! Are you all insane?!" She screamed. "We can trap him, tell the police, SOMETHING!"

Her cries leapt across the room, but Anne heard nothing from her allies.

Her eyes flooded with tears and she felt them cascade down her cheeks. "If I go with George… I won't be coming back, will I?"

There was no answer from anybody. It was as if the room was filled with voiceless, pitiful ghosts. She didn't need them to answer. She knew it would be a one-way trip and wouldn't end well at all.

Anne turned to Skut and Calculus, both standing and looking at her. "Was this your plan all along? To _deliver_ me to him?"

Skut nodded. Calculus did nothing in his guilt.

"What if I don't _want _to kill myself?" She spat, voice shaking uncontrollably and her eyes stinging. "What if I have more to live for than saving him?"

"Do you?"

Anne never considered. But as the thoughts of everything that she had lost in so little time, the emptiness that she couldn't ignore every time she even thought of Tintin, alone and hurt. If she was going to die… Tintin would be able to be the hero for longer. She _would _kill George – protect those she cared about from his wrath and they would go down together. This was always between them two, Tintin had got in between them and gave Anne the courage she needed.

This was what she wanted now. To protect the only person who truly cared about her. But she was terrified.

"I... I need to think about this…"

Anne tried to run like she did before, into the gardens to think, but the men formed a wall before her. Their eyes piercing into her with distrust and distain, almost robotic. They did not move, but they were clear that they would resort to violence if she tried to get past with their ready stance. Anne became scared quickly, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

"We can't let you change your mind about this, Anne." Calculus stated. "This time you will go there. With or without your help, we _will _get Tintin back."

"And you're happy with letting me die in the process?"

"Not happy, no. But it's the only option we have. I am sorry, Anne. I know how you feel about Tintin."

"You can't be serious…" she whispered, "This can't be happening – you were trying to help me get George! You have enough resources to flank him-"

"Tintin." Calculus corrected. "We're trying to help Tintin get away from that psychopath."

Anne tried to scream, but it was silenced almost immediately by a cloth that gagged her mouth. Her wrists were bound before she could fight back and unwelcome hands held her down on the polished wooden floor as she was tied up at the ankles. She panicked, thrashing out at her kidnappers – jerking her bound body out of their tight grips. It was no use; they had easily overwhelmed her and had no trouble dragging her into the basement of the manor. She screamed angrily, kicking at anybody who was careless enough to come near. They weren't careful with letting her tumble down the stairs of the basement.

She rolled down the stone stairs, feeling each knock become a bruise and uttering loud, muffled cries from her gagged mouth. When she reached the ground she saw the floor rapidly coming towards her – then only blackness.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Anne didn't know how long she was knocked out for. But it was a wet tongue that woke her up; she had never been so relieved to feel it. When her eyes opened, Snowy was happily smothering her in his saliva and his eyes were wide and bright with excitement. She tried to move, but still found her wrists and ankles still burning from the cord wrapped around them.

"Uhhg… Snowy..?" Anne slurred. "Wha..? Why're you here?"

Her dizziness continued for a minute longer, her head throbbing against her skull, trying to tear itself apart. She was dazed, her vision blurred and the world spun around continuously. Anne tried to gain bearings and work out where she was and what exactly just happened.

For some inexplicable, insane reason; her so-called friends had turned against her. They were too cowardly to fight against George, thus deciding that bowing to his wishes would save them from his wrath. Anne was frustrated with herself – weren't their intentions obvious? Why else would they take her, specifically, from the hospital? An invaluable bargaining chip that George would want more than a meddlesome reporter. That was a fate that she wouldn't – couldn't – face again. Not now she knew what he was.

"Snowy," she whispered, afraid but suddenly determined to escape, "We need to get out of here. Can you get me out of these?"

She didn't know how the dog knew what she wanted, but at the time she hardly cared. He started gnawing away at the tight ropes, growling as he did so. Anne worried about his sharp teeth tearing at her skin by accident, but he carefully avoided her and tore at only the ropes. He had a practiced technique and still hated the tough and stringy taste of rope. She was aware of her side and shoulders aching horribly from the bruises that had already begun to form.

"I can't believe what's happening… Calculus and Skut and all of them have lost it – they're gonna give me back to _him _but they don't know what he's like, Snowy. He's tossing them in a trap and they're refusing to see it, they just want Tintin back so badly. What can I do to make them see…?" her thoughts trailed off when she considered her options.

She could go along with giving herself up for Tintin. But Anne was certain that George was lying, she could hear the lie in his voice and she was almost certain that he would not stick to the plan. She was not going to sacrifice herself for no good reason, so that was only her final option.

Anne could run; once she worked out how to escape she could get out of the country before the day was out. She would be chased, but she picked up some secrets from being on the run, there was a very slim chance that she would actually get away. But trying might take George off her scent entirely, after all he wouldn't expect her to abandon Tintin. But if she didn't do _something_ - anything - then Tintin wouldn't last much longer. George didn't care about money any more, it was only about power over her and if she escaped the country he wouldn't be much use to him. She didn't want to carry the burden of Tintin's death with her; that would be too much for Anne to bear.

There was only one other option that she could take: find Tintin before the switch was made.

She had very little time before 11am; she couldn't tell the time from the basement where she was but it couldn't have been very long since she was thrown in here. Anne guessed that she was knocked out minutes, half an hour at most – that gave her at least 4 hours to somehow find out where he was being held and save him from George's clutches. But it wouldn't be easy. Nothing was easy when he was concerned. Was there a pattern, though? A way to see through the madness so she could see his next move?

Anne thought. She thought harder than ever – trying to see a magical route to victory. But nothing was there. Just random actions that seemed far too insane to be real, everything she knew was dying by George's hand. He was destroying her life. There was no motive or reasoning; she might as well be trying to make the world stop spinning or the sun stop shining.

"What can I do, Snowy?" she asked when her hands were free, rubbing the burn out of them. "I have no idea what the hell I should do."

Anne was being kept in a dark basement, with black walls that had a strong smell of damp and mildew about them. It was a suffocating smell and coupled with the floor that was so dusty that every time she stepped it was almost like digging footprints in sand; the environment was disgusting. The door that she was thrown down was a trapdoor and it wasn't going to open by any means she saw, no matter how many times Anne slammed against it with a rotted pole and screamed for someone, nobody came. She was alone in a huge basement with a dog, now a hoarse voice, a stick and literally nothing else that would be able save her life. She did notice that Snowy had marked territory in the horrid place and was sitting proudly before her, watching as she concocted her plan. Anne didn't want to disappoint him.

She walked over to the far wall of her prison in frustration, throwing the stick away in her anger. She saw the dark brick and rested her back against it. It was hard and smooth. She sighed at the comfort but hardly appreciated it – how could she think of herself when Tintin was somewhere in London, being murdered the most painful ways?

"Hang on…" she muttered to mostly herself. She felt the wall she was leaning upon – it was far too smooth for the stone it was imitating. An eruption of hope welled up within Anne as she thought of what this might mean, she dared to dream. She knocked against the surface and she heard a wooden reply. "Snowy – this is a fake wall."

The surprised and excited exclamation made Snowy bark, in his experience this meant getting out and getting out meant returning to Master Tintin.

Anne stared at a narrow wall that was almost certainly composed of fake wood; it shone differently in the dim light and nearly fooled her. She didn't hesitate – she easily picked up the discarded stick on the ground and slammed the piece of debris against the wall. It was only after it disintegrated on impact that she realised more conventional means were in order. She tried kicking it down, but clearly the wall was stronger than it looked and she would need yet another weapon to destroy it.

"Help me find something, Snowy…" she muttered, hoping the noise wouldn't attract unwanted attention.

Anne looked at the filthy, muddy ground, trying to see any sort of sharp or heavy object to use as an escape. She saw plenty of burnt out wood that became ash once held, metal scraps that were from takeaway meals that were better for battered cod than a battering ram. There were a few pebbles but they would hardly make a dent in the moist ground, let alone on a reinforced wooden door.

It was then a sound made her jump – the sound of something heavy landing and clattering on the stone floor. She looked back, fearf of Snowy's safety suddenly gripping her and squeezing a gasp from her throat.

But Snowy was sitting calmly next to an open hole with the false wall on the ground. His tongue was hanging out of his lips and he panted a little, but he was waiting patiently for Anne to continue their adventure. It was like he was waiting to be taken for a walk than being led into a dark, foreboding tunnel.

She smiled, impressed with the dog's quick work. "How did you-?"

Snowy interrupted with an impatient bark.

Anne moved forward – the hole was completely black. There was no way to tell that there was even ground before them it was so dark. It was completely crazy, she had been shot at, betrayed countless times and everything she was, gone in a single gunshot to the head – yet she was scared of this darkness. She didn't want to go in; every instinct dragged her away from the danger that would be there. Anne didn't have any light, nothing that she could defend herself with. She was completely helpless – utterly helpless in what was before her.

What would Tintin do?

What would Tintin _do_?

She tried to suppress her fear. Clutching her shaking hands into fists, slow her quickened breaths. She thought of him. Anne thought of Tintin; the smell of his hair, the light red quiff that was unmistakeable, the grey eyes that could inspire everything good in her, the cheeky wink he occasionally gave her. She wouldn't lose him. She _couldn't_.

Anne stepped into the hole. Snowy followed closely behind her.

There was little left of Tintin to be found.

The shell that once was the boy reporter hung on a wall like a disobedient slave. His face had been constantly beaten, his eyes swollen and purple from the countless bruises given to him during captivity. George had been ruthless with his punishment. He couldn't stand anymore. He was being held up only by the chains shackled to his wrists, dried blood mixing with the rusted iron in a dripping mess. He had been given water, but never enough to satisfy his thirst. He had been fed the bare minimum of revolting food to make him weak and puny. It was surprising what a few days of malnutrition could do to a man, he felt and looked incredibly skinny.

He knew he was near a pier. Behind the sound of his own screams were the cries of sailors yelling to each other, the occasional ring of a bell far off to signal some sort of time in the day. The sound of running water splashing and crashing was a torture that he couldn't endure, his mouth reduced to sandpaper. His hair was greasy, the quiff flattening with the rest of the brownish-red atop his head. Tintin still wore the trousers from his capture but had been refused anything else; the cold had stolen any feeling in his hands.

Then he heard her voice. Briefly, but enough for a little life to return to him; rekindling the fire that he somehow lost along the way. His friends were looking for him – if they were smart they would've traced the signal from the radio transmission and pinpointed the area he was being held to within a ten mile radius. It was a big area to search, but removing any locations that were too popular and inquiring with Thompson and Thomson they would eventually find him. It was only a matter of time.

He needed to buy as much of it as he could for them. But he was so tired…

It was Anne that was giving him strength to not die. Over the hours he had free of any company, he had thought about her. About the way she would smile at rare times that would make his heart skip beats, how she smelt faintly like water lilies, her eyes vicious and yet kind and a voice that had reduced him to nothing in a few vile words.

Tintin regretted everything. He would've taken it all back – the lies that he had told to ease Anne's pain. That _really _worked, didn't it? He made the pain endure for her. It wasn't intentional – but yet again, he had acted before even thinking about the consequences. He made her suffering last because it was easier for him to bear, it was obvious she needed him but he was too selfish to try and tell her. He realised this too late.

He wouldn't last long. He heard his guards talking. They would kill him if Anne didn't show up on time. Tintin hoped she wouldn't. He needed her to get away even if it meant his death.

It was too late for him.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Anne emerged an hour later from the black tunnel to a hidden iron gate near a bridge. Snowy was behind her and barked at the uncomfortable, but needed, light in the sky that blinded them both. The change was so drastic that Anne felt disorientated and confused, but this lasted for only seconds. She noticed some old stone stairs and climbed them two at a time, adrenaline flowing through her veins. Now that the easy part was over, she would be able to look for Tintin.

But where to start?

She had considered trying to contact the police to help in her search. But the process of requesting help from any station in London was notoriously slow and she didn't have time to go through millions of missing person forms. So she tried to think like George. What would he do?

Anne found herself facing Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on the body of the bridge. The majestic buildings looming over her like she was just some bug beneath their shoe. She smiled widely – she couldn't have hoped for a better outcome with only one hour wasted in her escape, it didn't feel like just an hour had passed, but she wasn't complaining. She knew exactly where she was and half of London after this point. Nobody had noticed her suddenly appear from nowhere and she wanted it to remain that way – she started walking toward the south. There wasn't any particular reason she went that way, it was intuition that was guiding her now.

Anne's current logic was this: George's incredible genius had to mean that he would have planned out several safe places in advance. They would need to be out of the way, easily defendable and would have to have several escape routes if the worst occurred. He wouldn't choose places anywhere near official inquires or stakeouts; which he would have informants ready and installed in the appropriate departments to tell him where these were. But Anne didn't know anything about those sorts of places or where the police would be, therefore she had been forcibly returned to square one.

Snowy was still beside her, somewhat panting in order to keep up.

While she thought, Anne took in her surroundings. London bridge was streaming with people, foreign and British alike but mostly tourists. None stood out that she would consider an immediate danger. Everything seemed normal and that bothered her. London was supposed to be in turmoil and chaotic. The police helpless against a terrifying army of thugs and rogues, killing mercilessly anybody who dared to stand in their way. So if that was true why were people walking around normally and calmly? Didn't they hear about the attack on a public station by a homicidal maniac? Or didn't they care?

"Miss Anne?"

She whipped around, stopping immediately and readying herself for the worst. But she wasn't facing two armed murderers who would cut her where she stood. Two policemen in bowler hats, sharp suits and holding canes in the crook of their elbows were before her. They had a serious, snobby glint in their eyes that made her immediately think of her late father's friends. Snowy barked happily at the intruders, but Anne didn't let her guard down for a moment.

"My name is Thompson -"

"That is to say, his name is Thompson and my name is Thomson."

"We're here to help. Tintin is in grave danger."

"Tell me something I don't know." She hissed, trying to walk away from them. This was wasting time she didn't have to spare.

But they managed to keep up and walked on either side of her, Snowy at her heels. "You don't know where he's being held. We do."

She couldn't hesitate in her stride but Anne still thought about what she had to lose. "I'm listening."

The other man continued and she didn't pay attention to who was named who and didn't bother remembering. "George has been seen in several places in the last three days. One of them is in a tower block, where he has stayed on the third floor-"

"He won't be there."

An exchanged look of doubt between colleagues. "Why do you say that?"

"Trust me, I know him better than anybody." She spat harshly.

"We think that he might be near to a criminal named Lane. We thought that maybe he has made a deal and has refuge in one of his warehouses deep in the gang's territory."

Again Anne shook her head. "He doesn't make deals with people. If he wants something, then he takes it – there's no negotiation, if anybody stops him then he kills them. Surely by the evidence at the blown up station you can see that."

The policemen were losing their patience with the interruptions, but they didn't let it show. "There is only one other place. The abandoned docks which is two miles from here on the edge of London, he was seen with a group of men which we assume are his guards."

"So you know where he is," she said excitedly, brightening with hope. "You can go and get him out of there. This nightmare can be over!"

"It's not as simple as-"

"It is that simple! Just go in there and arrest that monster before he kills more and more people!"

"The police are gone." One of them said, ashamed and bowing his head ever so slightly in synchronisation with his colleague. "All departments are working double time to get this situation under control with George."

Anne gestured around them. "What're you talking about? Everything's fine!"

"On the outside, yes." They spoke in unison. Anne started, backing away a little, they spoke at the exact same time with no prompt from one or another. There wasn't even a slight distinction between their voices; they sounded _exactly_ the same.

"But behind this disguise, all the departments are gone. We think that George has corrupted all the people in the right places, so right now the police are helpless. It's the same for the fire brigade and the government, the media. Everything."

"We aren't even supposed to be talking to you." The other continued. "We were given instructions to bring you in to question you for the kidnapping and murder of Tintin. Even though all the evidence we gathered suggests the contrary."

"So I can't go to the police for help?"

They shook their heads, lowering them slightly. "I'm sorry."

"We cannot tell you, therefore, that I have a pistol loaded with twelve bullets in my top left coat pocket." Thompson said quietly.

"Or that currently many of our colleagues are watching an abandoned pier warehouse on Fleet Street, suspecting that is where George is hiding. We agree with these suspicions and if you had the intention of finding him, we would suggest going across the bridge and down the first right you find in the fork in the road. Snowy will be able to do the rest."

"Indeed. Or that by surprising me within the next twelve seconds with some distraction, there would be a good chance that you would be able to snatch Thompson's weapon without any resistance. Although it would be better for appearance's sake to create a bruise for us to show our superiors of the struggle about to take place."

Anne was thoroughly impressed and smiled deviously, mouthing a muted 'thank you' before striking. Tompson was taken by a good act of surprise with a quick punch on the nose, causing blood to gush out and the man to fall down dramatically. Thompson's gun was in the suspect's hands by an 'accidental' fall upon her caused the gun to be in her possession. Anne resisted the sudden urge to find out if they were okay, wondering how she could ever hit someone so incredibly hard to knock them over completely, but then the running began and there was no time for anything.

Anne sprinted up the bridge, she didn't want to wait to see if Tintin would survive whatever George had planned for him, it felt as though the hours she had were nothing. Mere minutes that she had to use to try to find this warehouse, get him out and get George somewhere in the process_._

She felt her calves burning, her lungs screaming and icy air stab at her eyes, making them water. Each landing of her feet on the cold pavement hurt from all the walking she had been doing but she kept going and turned right. Snowy then barked behind her and took the lead, sending her down twisting alleys that made her lose her way quickly.

During the run she kept feeling something wrong at the back of her mind. Something that didn't make sense and just felt distinctly out of place; she just couldn't put her finger on it. Anne wanted to dismiss it as nervousness and paranoia but the feeling stayed and whispered to her that this entire situation was so much… _more _than it appeared. Like seeing a shadowed figure among fog, contemplating each move that she made and when she made it, not taking charge, just watching_. _

Anne didn't understand the feeling at all. Or why she was even worrying about it.


End file.
